WILLIAMS  VERSE 

60LLE6TED  FR0M  :  :  : 
HER  UNDERGRADUATE 
PUBLI6ATI0NS  :  :  :  :  ; 


EDITED  BY 

FREDERIC  MILLER  SMEDLEY 
FRANK  HAMMOND  GRIGGS 
AND  HOWARD  OPDYKE  '  '  ' 


CENTENNIAL  EDITION 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK  LONDON 

27  WEST  TWENTY-THIRD   STREET        24   BEDFORD   STREET,   STRAND 

|)ress 
1893 


TO 
THE    CENTURY 

OF 

ACTIVITY    AND    PROGRESS 

WHICH    HAS    ATTENDED 

WILLIAMS   COLLEGE 


M107481 


PREFACE. 

N  introducing  this  little  volume  of  Williams 
Verse  to  the  college  world,  the  editors  have 
acted  with  many  compunctions,  feeling  as 
they  do  their  inability  to  throw  a  proper  appre- 
ciation into  the  work.  It  has,  however,  been 
evident  for  some  time  that  a  volume  of  such 
verse  should  be  collected,  which  would  bring 
into  prominence  that  department  of  college  litera- 
ture in  which  Williams  has  shown  herself  particu- 
larly capable.  What  occasion  could  be  more 
fortunate  for  its  appearance  than  the  centennial 
anniversary  which  the  College  is  about  to  cele- 
brate ?  Thus  a  modest  collection  of  what  has 
appeared  in  our  periodicals  in  all  the  wide  range 
from  the  sonnet  to  the  lighter  verse,  more  recently 
so  noticeable  in  undergraduate  publications,  will 
prove,  it  is  hoped,  a  fitting  souvenir  of  an  observance 
which  is  dear  to  every  Williams  man. 

The  poems  contained  within  these  covers  repre- 
sent what  has  seemed  the  best  of  verse  production 
which  has  appeared  in  our  college  periodicals — 


vi  PREFACE. 

judged,  that  is,  from  the  standpoint  of  the  reader 
who  enjoys  and  criticises  such  writings,  but  is  con- 
fessedly unable  to  produce  a  single  stanza  worthy 
of  being  printed. 

The  editors  are  particularly  indebted  to  the  col- 
lection of  Williams  Verses  which  appeared  some 
six  or  seven  years  ago,  and  to  Mr.  Abbott  and  Mr. 
Richardson,  more  especially,  for  the  aid  which 
their  excellent  taste  in  selection  has  given  them, 
and  they  regret  exceedingly  the  incursion  which  it 
seemed  right  to  make  into  their  territory.  Thanks 
are  also  due  Mr.  Burr,  our  College  librarian,  for  his 
assistance  in  obtaining  complete  files  of  the  publi- 
cations which  Williams  has  in  turn  fostered — the 
Quarterly  Athenczum,  Argo,  Fortnight,  Literary 
Monthly,  Weekly,  and  Gulielmensian.  Much  kindly 
assistance  has  been  rendered  the  editors  by  many 
of  the  alumni  in  determining  the  authorship  of 
anonymous  verse.  The  necessity  for  some  refer- 
ence to  Williams  songs  has  led  to  the  placing  of 
a  few  of  the  more  distinctive  at  the  end  of  the 
volume. 

FREDERIC  MILLER  SMEDLEY,  '93. 

FRANK  HAMMOND  GRIGGS,  '93. 

HOWARD  OPDYKE,  '93. 
WILLIAMS  COLLEGE,  May,  1893. 


Contents. 


PAGE 

A  Heartless  Task, 

I,    59.    S.  T.  Livingston,  '87. 

13 

Ballade  of  a  Dainty  Coquette, 

IV,    20.     I.  W.  Allen,  Jr.,  '84. 

8 

Ballade  of  Reverie, 

Ill,    49.     I.  W.  Allen,  Jr.,  '84. 

5 

Ballade  of  the  Haunted  Stream, 

II,  148.     E.  G.  Benedict,  '82. 

18 

41  Castles  in  Spain," 

I,  163.     E.  G.  Benedict,  '82. 

17 

Indiscretion, 

IV,  175.     H.  G.  Dunham,  '85. 

12 

Inviting, 

IV,  115.    D.  C.  Brewer,  '86. 

*3 

Justifiable  Homicide, 

II,      5.     E.  G.  Benedict,  '82. 

9 

Lost, 

IV,    76.    H.  G.  Dunham,  '85. 

ii 

Roses, 

I,  185.    E.  G.  Benedict,  '82. 

2 

Sun  and  Moon, 

I,      2.     G.  L.  Richardson,  '88. 

3 

The  Birth  of  the  Sonnet, 

I,  206.     E.  G.  Benedict,  '82. 

i 

The  Grave  of  Merlin, 

II,  105.     E.  G.  Benedict,  '82. 

4 

The  Niebelungen  Lied, 

II,i6s.     I.  W.  Allen,  Jr.,  '84. 

20 

The  Softest  Tint, 

IV,  163.    D.  C.  Brewer,  '86. 

14 

To  an  Old  Spanish  Fan, 

Ill,  107.     I.  W.  Allen,  Jr.,  '84. 

6 

Too  Unfilial, 

Ill,  164.     H.  S.  Underwood,  '83. 

12 

Ye  Ballade  of  ye  Polyte  Hygh- 

waymen, 

I,  148.    E.  G.  Benedict,  '82. 

15 

Btbenazum. 

Adrift, 

XI,  229.     P.  W.  Blackmer,  '86. 

36 

Aphrodite's  Colors, 

X,  269.    T.  D.  Knight,  '84. 

40 

A  Relic  of  the  Past, 

X,  217.     T.  D.  Knight,  '84. 

24 

A  Trio, 

XI,    21.     C.  H.  Perry,  '86. 

29 

A  Withered  Leaf, 

X,  153.     T.  D.  Knight,  '84. 

26 

Before  Her  Glass, 

XI,  101.     P.  W.  Blackmer,  '86. 

34 

Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


Boccherini's  Minuet, 

Fra  Giovanni, 

Impressions  a  la  i5th  Amendment, 

My  Queen's  Reign, 

October  Musings, 

Sketches  in  Sonnets, 

Sonnet, 

Sonnet, 

Sonnet  to  the  Melian  Zeus, 

Stone  Hill, 

The  Friar  and  the  Fool, 

The  Meeting, 

To  My  Pipe, 

To  the  Trailing  Arbutus, 

Villanelle, 

Who  Gave  the  Moon  Her  Rin: 

Ye  Arbutus, 


A  Coquette, 

A  Modern  Instance, 

A  Quiet  Smoke, 

Arbutus, 

Classical  Criticism, 

"Good  Night," 

Her  Glove, 

Hylas, 

In  Holland  Brown, 

Lieder  Ohne  Worte, 

My  Ship, 

On  Receiving  a  Ruskin  Calendar, 

Rondeau — Ah,  Lassie  Fair  ! 

Song :  Jack  FalstafF s  Sack, 

Song  :  The  Vanished  Days, 

Sonnet — A  Leaf, 

To  My  Pony, 

To  the  Venus  de  Milo, 

Where  Harebell  Droops, 

Ye  Prettye  Mayde, 


PAGE 

IX,  2i8. 

G.  A.  Copeland,  '83. 

37 

VI,  173- 

Bliss  Perry,  '81. 

23 

ent,    X,    52. 

A.  W.  Underwood,  '84. 

44 

XI,  214. 

P.  W.  Blackmer,  '86. 

32 

IX,   122. 

A.  W.  Underwood,  '84. 

35 

XI,  118. 

C.  H.  Perry,  '86. 

28 

II,    13. 

A.  H.  Tolman,  '77. 

36 

F.  W.  Olds,  '76. 

45 

IX,    95. 

C.  H.  Perry,  '86. 

32 

X,  207. 

P.  W.  Blackmer,  '86. 

39 

IX,    70. 

G.  A.  Copeland,  '83. 

41 

XI,    23. 

P.  W.  Blackmer,  '86. 

31 

I,    97. 

F.  W.  Olds,  '76. 

26 

IV,  157. 

W.  S.  Pratt,  '78. 

43 

X,  189. 

G.  A.  Copeland,  '83. 

3° 

??       X,  189. 

P.  W.  Blackmer,  '86. 

38 

VI,  149- 

Wyllys  Rede,  '82. 

42 

ffortnfgbt. 

1,  145. 

E.  A.  Blackmer,  '86. 

5i 

I,  64. 

E.  L.  Adams,  '87. 

54 

II,  153. 

T.  M.  Banks,  '90. 

55 

I,  ii. 

E.  L.  Adams,  '87. 

57 

II,  138. 

G.  L.  Richardson,  '88. 

So 

II,  75- 

Samuel  Abbott,  '87. 

62 

II,  80. 

E.  J.  Thomas,  Jr.,  '88. 

61 

1,  189. 

S.  G.  Tenney,  '86. 

52 

I,  80. 

S.  G.  Tenney,  '86. 

60 

I,  191. 

G.  L.  Richardson,  '88. 

59 

II,  188. 

T.  M.  Banks,  '90. 

48 

lar,      II,    46. 

G.  L.  Richardson,  '88. 

62 

I,    64. 

S.  G.  Tenney,  '86. 

55 

I,     5- 

S.  G.  Tenney,  '86. 

56 

I,     5- 

S.  G.  Tenney,  '86. 

58 

I,  i73. 

Samuel  Abbott,  '87. 

51 

II,  109. 

I.  S.  Underbill,  '89. 

49 

I,  132. 

Samuel  Abbott,  '87. 

58 

II,  107. 

Samuel  Abbott,  '87. 

47 

I,  60. 

S.  G.  Tenney,  '86. 

53 

CONTENTS.                                ix 
OttJfelmensfan, 

PAGE 

A  Tale  of  Passion, 

'88,  129. 

N.  H.  Thompson,  '88. 

68 

His  Essay, 

'89,    98. 

I.  S.  Underbill,  '89. 

67 

In  Transept  Seats, 

'03i  *53- 

E.  R.  White,  '94. 

65 

Ode  to  Dr.  Hopkins, 

'84,      7- 

G.  H.  Badger,  '83. 

7i 

The  Point  of  View, 

Vt  «3. 

R.  L.  Hartt,  '92. 

67 

To  Julia  on  Whistling, 

'86,    68. 

P.  W.  Blackmer,  '86. 

70 

Vespera, 

'87,   122. 

S.  T.  Livingston,  '87. 

69 

Why  Read? 

'89,   124. 

I.  S.  Underbill,  '89. 

66 

Xtterars  fl&ontb 

l£* 

Arbutus, 

IV,    47- 

Howard  Kennedy,  Jr.,  '89 

•95 

A  Summer  Song, 

V,    ii. 

T.  M.  Banks,  '90. 

83 

A  Valentine, 

I,  330. 

S.  T.  Livingston,  '87. 

102 

A  Vision, 

Ill,  358. 

G.  L.  Richardson,  '88. 

94 

A  Winter  Twilight, 

I,  43i. 

G.  L.  Richardson,  '88. 

74 

Christmas-Tide, 

I,  273. 

G.  L.  Richardson,  '88. 

103 

"  Der  Tod  als  Freund," 

II,  TIO. 

S.  T.  Livingston,  '87. 

78 

Fireside  Dreams, 

VI,  336. 

J.  R.  Tillinghast,  Jr.,  '92 

.  88 

Hope's  Farewell, 

VI,  381. 

L.  P.  Slade,  '93. 

93 

I  Dare  Not, 

VIII,    15. 

R.  L.  Hartt,  '92. 

82 

Im  Abend, 

IV,      21. 

H.  W.  Edson,  '90. 

81 

Indian  Summer, 

1,  184. 

C.  H.  Perry,  '86. 

75 

Love's  Philosophy, 

V,  365- 

P.  S.  Allen,  '91. 

90 

Moon  Fancies, 

II,  332. 

Samuel  Abbott,  '87. 

101 

Night, 

II,  272. 

S.  T.  Livingston,  '87. 

73 

Not  for  Me, 

VII,    74. 

E.  L.  Crandall,  '91. 

97 

On  Millet's  Angelus, 

I,i8o. 

E.  L.  Adams,  '87. 

77 

Revealing, 

V,  218. 

T.  M.  Banks,  '90. 

90 

Roughened  Seas, 

VII,    81. 

Arthur  Oliver,  '93. 

99 

Serenade, 

VI,      7. 

T.  M.  Banks,  '90. 

91 

Serenade, 

VI,    78. 

A.  K.  Willyoung,  '93. 

87 

Service, 

IV,  418. 

T.  M.  Banks,  '90. 

96 

Seven  Years, 

II,  441. 

Samuel  Abbott,  '87. 

76 

Song, 

Ill,  141. 

G.  L.  Richardson,  '88. 

80 

Sonnet, 

IV,      7. 

G.  L.  Richardson,  '88. 

95 

'  Spelling  Down, 

VI,    72. 

R.  L.  Hartt,  '92. 

86 

Spring  Faith, 

V,  127. 

H.  W.  Edson,  '90. 

88 

Spring  Holiday, 

V,  127. 

H.  W.  Edson.  '90. 

84 

X 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Sunrise, 

V,  176. 

T.  M.  Banks,  '90. 

89 

The  Captive's  Death, 

Ill,      10. 

H.  M.  Allen,  '88. 

78 

The  Good  Old  English  Gentle- 

man, 

I,  136. 

H.  W.  Banks,  Jr.,  '85. 

100 

The  Hunter  and  the  Maid, 

VI,    85. 

E.  L.  Crandall,  '91. 

92 

The  Viking, 

V,  422. 

J.  R.  Tillinghast,  Jr.,  '92 

.84 

Three  Knocks, 

I,    13. 

P.  W.  Blackmer,  '86. 

75 

Tints, 

VIII,    23. 

Arthur  Oliver,  '93. 

83 

Triolet, 

VI,  174. 

E.  R.  White,  '94. 

92 

Twilight, 

V,  439- 

P.  S.  Allen,  '91. 

85 

<s 

Apostrophe, 

XVI,  223. 

E.  W.  B.  Canning,  '34. 

109 

A  Sophist, 

I,   100. 

107 

Memory, 

II,  207. 

J.  A.  Garfield,  '56. 

105 

The  Brook, 

XII,  168. 

G.  P.  Noble,  '65. 

107 

A  Bankrupt  Voice, 

VI,  170. 

E.  R.  White,  '94. 

126 

After  the  Season, 

VI,  134. 

T.  H.  Simmons,  '96. 

130 

Alumni  Song, 

11,317. 

T.  W.  Davis,  '66. 

123 

Alumnus'  Reply  to  Invitation, 

II,  171. 

E.  W.  B.  Canning,  '34. 

123 

A  Maiden's  Ways, 

IV,  195. 

A.  K.  Willyoung,  '93. 

131 

A  Retort  Courteous, 

VI,  170. 

E.  R.  White,  '94. 

129 

A  Spring-time  Idyl, 

V,  374- 

E.  R.  White,  '94. 

133 

A  Summer's  Love, 

VI,  339- 

E.  R.  White,  '94. 

"3 

A  Tragedie, 

I,  278. 

H.  W.  Edson,  '90. 

121 

At  the  German, 

II,    15- 

McGregor  Jenkins,  '90. 

122 

A  Winter  Landscape, 

HI,  339- 

T.  M.  Banks,  '90. 

124 

Cecilia  Playing, 

V,  339- 

R.  L.  Hartt,  '92. 

131 

Counter-Evidence, 

IV,  255. 

R.  L.  Hartt,  '92. 

I3I 

Different  Standpoints, 

VI,    50. 

F.  T.  Harward,  '94. 

126 

Duplicity, 

VI,  134- 

E.  R.  White,  '94. 

I30 

Hard-Hearted, 

Ill,  387. 

A.  K.  Willyoung,  '93. 

121 

Jingles  of  Odd  Keys, 

V,  267. 

N.  H.  Dutcher,  '94. 

I27 

Love's  Attic, 

VI,  303- 

E.  R.  White,  '94. 

"3 

May  and  December, 

V,    14. 

J.  T.  Newcomb,  '92. 

127 

Multum  in  Parvo, 

V,    78. 

R.  L.  Hartt,  '92. 

129 

My  First  Love, 

V,  226. 

N.  H.  Dutcher,  '94. 

128 

CONTENTS. 


XI 


PAGE 

My  Ladie's  Fan, 

VI,  268. 

R.  L.  Hartt,  '92. 

in 

On  the  Balcony, 

1M,    15. 

J.  T.  Newcomb,  '92. 

119 

Quatrain, 

VI,    14. 

E.  R.  White,  '94. 

128 

Rondeau, 

VI,  279. 

E.  R.  White,  '94. 

114 

Rondeau, 

E.  R.  White,  '94, 

125 

Song, 

HI,  363. 

T.  M.  Banks,  '90. 

1  20 

Speculation  vs.  Empiricism, 

VI,        2. 

R.  L.  Hartt,  '92. 

126 

Tempora  Mutantur, 

IV,  268. 

A.  K.  Willyoung,  '93. 

132 

The  First  Quarrel, 

II,  147. 

I.  S.  Underhill,  '89. 

118 

The  Fool's  Logic, 

II,  183. 

I.  S.  Underhill,  '89. 

112 

The  Modern  Way, 

VI,  182. 

E.  R.  White,  '94. 

133 

The  Quest  of  Spring, 

VI,  350. 

E.  R.  White,  '94. 

112 

The  Rime  of  the  Cooking-School 

Girl, 

HI,    39- 

J.  T.  Newcomb,  '92. 

US 

The  Sailor, 

II,  251. 

P.  S.  Wild,  '91. 

117 

The  Two'Maids, 

V,  226. 

F.  P.  Kimball,  '95. 

132 

Tit  for  Tat, 

II,  231. 

McGregor  Jenkins,  '90. 

"5 

Upon  the  Stage, 

HI,  3^7. 

A.  K.  Willyoung,  '93. 

116 

Belinda  Clarissa,                      Gul 

-,  '91,  142. 

W.  H.  Edwards,  '91. 

139 

Eph.  Williams, 

141 

Friar's  Song, 

W.  H.  Edwards,  '91. 

138 

Paris'  Song, 

W.  H.  Edwards,  '91. 

137 

The  Mountains, 

Washington  Gladden,  '59. 

T35 

To  Thee,  O  Williams, 

II,  i77. 

Samuel  Abbott,  '87. 

136 

Selections  from  Gbe  Ergo, 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  SONNET. 

BESIDE  the  southern  sea,  in  days  of  old, 
Once  stood  Apollo,  with  the  Graces  three, 
The  Muses,  and  their  mother  Memory, — 
In  all  fourteen, — to  sing  the  age  of  gold  : 
And  first  Apollo's  voice  in  music  rolled, 
Then  each  in  turn  sang  to  the  listening  sea, 
Till  Memory  took  up  the  melody, 
And  in  her  thoughtful  voice  the  end  was  told. 


Thus,  then,  was  born  the  Sonnet.     'T  is  the  lord 

Of  all  the  figments  of  a  poet's  brain, 

If  to  its  fourteen  lines  he  can  award 

That  order  of  Apollo  and  his  train, — 

The  God  of  Song  to  strike  the  opening  chord, 

While  Memory  evokes  the  closing  strain. 

E.  G.  Benedict. 


Y 


WILLIAMS  VERSE. 
ROSES. 

OU  plucked  a  rosebud  yesterday, 
As  I  was  standing  by  your  side, 

To  give  me.     Were  you  thinking,  pray, 
Of  what  the  flower  signified  ? 


For  roses  have  a  subtle  sense, 

A.  sense  which  is  not  shown  above  ; 

And  when  a  maid  a  rose  presents, 
Its  hidden  meaning  is,  I  love. 

Take  back  your  rose, — unless  you  knew 
That  such  a  meaning  I  would  guess. 

The  flower,  though  given  e'en  by  you, 
Is  worse  to  me  than  valueless. 

But  if  you  knew  what  roses  meant, 
Take  back  your  rose,  I  still  repeat, 

To  find  there,  not  the  love  you  sent, 
But  mine  amid  the  petals  sweet. 

£.  G.  Benedict 


THE  ARGO. 
SUN  AND  MOON. 

[From  an  Iceland  Myth. ~\ 

'HE  Sun  and  Moon  lived  side  by  side 
In  the  ages  long  ago, 
She  was  a  maiden  full  of  life, 

And  he  a  warrior  hot  for  strife  ; 

He  fain  would  have  her  for  his  bride. 
She  loved  him,  yes, 

But  she  ever  answered,  no. 

The  Sun  and  Moon  lived  side  by  side, 

In  the  ages  long  ago, 
And  ever  he  wooed  her  his  wife  to  be, 
But  the  Moon  still  clung  to  her  coquetry, 
And  the  patient  love  of  the  Sun  defied. 

She  loved  him,  yes, 
But  she  ever  answered,  no. 

Too  long  to  play  with  the  Sun  she  tried, 

In  the  ages  long  ago  ; 
And  now  forever  faded  and  old, 
Pale  and  lifeless  and  wofully  cold, 
She  must  wander  over  the  heaven  wide. 

She  loved  him,  yes, 
But  too  long  she  answered,  no. 

And  so  it  is  that  the  Moon  alway, 
As  she  wanders  the  heaven  through, 


WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Looks  ever  down  with  a  gentle  face 

On  things  that  are  old  and  commonplace 

In  the  bright  and  garish  light  of  day  ; 

She  pities  them, 
But  she  cares  not  for  the  new. 

G.  L.  Richardson. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  MERLIN. 

'HE  forest  of  Broceliande 

Glooms  o'er  the  yellow  stretch  of  sand 
Beside  the  tossing,  purple  sea 

Which  breaks  on  dreamy  Brittany. 

But  never  noise  from  out  the  deep, 

Or  boom  of  breakers  on  the  steep, 

Passes  beyond  the  silent  band 

Which  marks  the  wood  Broceliande. 

There  in  the  magic  forest's  shade 

Lies  Merlin,  Arthur's  wizard  friend ; 
By  her  he  loved  the  best  betrayed, 

He  sleeps  the  sleep  that  knows  no  end. 
Merlin  the  old,  who  lived  of  yore, 

Merlin  the  proud,  who  lived  to  rule, 
Merlin  the  wise,  who  knew  all  lore, 

Merlin  the  lost,  who  loved, — a  fool. 


THE  ARGO. 

The  sunlight  shimmers  through  the  trees, 
The  softly-crooning  summer  breeze 
Pauses  upon  its  vagrant  way, 
The  hare  speeds  past,  a  flash  of  gray, 
And  full-throat  birds  their  singing  cease  ; 
Where  Merlin  sleeps  reigns  perfect  peace, 
And  o'er  him  blows  a  banner  grand, — 

The  forest  of  Broceliande. 

E.  G.  Benedict. 


BALLADE  OF  REVERIE. 


xj  N  the  pine  forests  deep  and  dim  and  wide, 
M         Where  balmy  odors  blow  from  every  tree, 
Where  "dowery  dells'*  arbutus  blossoms  hide, 

And  Nature  seems  in  sweet  repose  to  be, 
And  naught  disturbs  my  silent  reverie  ; 

There  lying,  lazy,  rhyming  line  to  line, 
I  watch  the  swift  clouds  floating,  dreamily, 

I  dream  sweet  dreams  in  reverie  divine. 

ii. 

When,  all  the  west  with  rich  red  pigment  dyed, 
The  sun  sets  glorious  in  a  golden  sea, 

And  comes  the  gentle  twilight  to  divide 

The  day  from  night ;  when  o'er  the  silent  lea 


6  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

There  buzzing  comes  a  big  belated  bee, 
Weighted  with  honey  of  the  eglantine, 

Who  flies  toward  home  and  passes  near  to  me — 
I  dream  sweet  dreams  in  reverie  divine. 

in. 

When  by  clear  streams  that  gently  downward  slide 

And  murmur  softly  in  their  quiet  glee  ; 
When  Dian  rises  and  begins  to  glide 

Between  the  stars  e'en  as  she  still  would  flee 
Orion  and  his  importunity  ; 

When  nightingales  sing  from  the  swaying  vine, 
Then  with  my  soul  from  cares  and  troubles  free, 

I  dream  sweet  dreams  in  reverie  divine. 

L'ENVOI. 

Yes,  when  I  lie  in  wildwood  greenery, 

And  watch  the  morn,  the  noon,  the  night  decline, 
My  soul  is  thrilled  with  silent  sympathy — 

I  dream  sweet  dreams  in  reverie  divine. 

7.  W.  Allen,  Jr. 

TO  AN  OLD  SPANISH  FAN. 

|H  !  black  lace  fan,  with  sweet  perfume, 

Thou  didst  belong  to  some  fair  maid 
Of  ancient  Spain,  who  in  her  bloom, 
On  moonlit  evenings  often  strayed 


THE  ARGO. 

Where  golden  orange  blossoms  glow, 
By  Guadalquivir's  dreamy  flow. 

Her  soft  hair  fallen  about  her  face, 
She  plucked  the  roses  wet  with  dew 

That  gained,  when  fastened  in  her  lace, 
A  sweeter  odor  than  they  knew  ; 

And  one  she  placed  within  her  hair, 

That  died  with  pride  at  being  there. 

With  you,  black  fan,  in  her  white  hand, 

Giving  it  still  a  whiter  hue, 
Where'er  she  went  throughout  the  land 

The  youthful  nobles  knelt  to  sue  ; 
And  one  she  loved  above  the  rest 
And  to  his  own  her  sweet  lips  prest. 

But  that  was  long,  so  long  ago, 
In  that  fair  land  of  ancient  Spain. 

The  flowers  her  hand  no  longer  know, 
And  gone  is  all  the  suitor  train 

That  followed  her.     She  lies  so  deep 

The  world  has  now  forgot  to  weep. 

/.  W.  Allen,  Jr. 


WILLIAMS  VERSE. 
BALLADE  OF  A  DAINTY  COQUETTE. 

F7ACE  of  the  daintiest  shade, 
==^     Eyes  of  the  tenderest  brown, 

Ankle  so  neatly  displayed, 
Furbelowed,  lace-betrimmed  gown  ; 
Mistress  of  man  and  of  clown, 
Fashion's  and  Cupid's  own  pet, 
Come  and  before  her  bow  down, — 
This  is  a  dainty  coquette. 

Deadlier  far  than  a  blade 
Swung  by  a  knight  of  renown, 
To  the  men's  hearts  is  this  maid  ; 
Much  to  be  feared  is  her  frown, 
Forehead  where  old  Time  has  plown 
Not  one  small  furrow  as  yet  : 
Come  and  before  her  bow  down, — 
This  is  a  dainty  coquette. 

Fond  of  a  sweet  serenade, 
And  music  her  fancies  to  drown  ; 
Queen  at  a  grand  masquerade, 
Meet  for  a  jewel-starred  crown  ; 

Known  by  her  name  throughout  town, 
Beauty  and  toast  of  her  set, 
Come  and  before  her  bow  down, — 
This  is  a  dainty  coquette. 


THE  ARGO. 

L'ENVOI. 

Love  is  to  her  but  a  noun, 
To  her  but  a  word  is  regret, 
Come  and  before  her  bow  down, — 
This  is  a  dainty  coquette. 

/.  W.  Allen,  Jr. 


JUSTIFIABLE  HOMICIDE. 

[ !  I  once  did  know  a  fellow,  and  he  played 

a  yellow  'cello, 
And  if  mellow,  made  it  bellow  in  a  way  that 

I  despise  : 
When  the  boarders  all  were  sleeping,  he  began  his 

practice  keeping, 
While  we  listened,  weeping,  heaping  curses  on  his — 

something — eyes. 
Now  one  night  about  eleven,  (he  'd  been  practising 

since  seven, 
While  we  all  were  praying  Heaven  to  send  lightning 

from  the  sky,) 
William  Simmons,  slowly  rising,  said,  "  It  will  not 

seem  surprising 
When  I  say  there  's  no  disguising  that  that  there 

young  man  must  die  !  " 


10  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Then  we  crept   upstairs  in  slippers,  armed  with 

broomsticks,  shovels,  nippers, 
And  we  tied  him  by  the  flippers,  tightly  down  upon 

the  bed, 
And  a  man  for  every  hour,  spite  the  victim's  sour 

glower, 
Sat  and  sawed  with  all  his  power,  on  the  'cello  near 

his  head. 

He  assailed  our  mercies, — purses, — we  played  on 

with  smiles  like  Circe's  ; 
He,  with  curses,  spoke  of  hearses  we  would  occupy 

next  day. 
But  the  more  he  kept  on  talking,  all  the  louder  we 

kept  squawking, 
Thus  effectually  balking  his  attempts  to  get  away. 

'T  was  at  four  o'clock,  with  gladness  we  observed 

the  signs  of  madness, 
With   sadness   for  his  badness,  just  at  6  A.M.  he 

died, — 
We  interred  him  at  our  leisure,  but  with  pleasure 

without  measure, — 
Let  all  'cello-players  treasure  the  dark  warning  here 

implied. 

E.  G.  Benedict. 


THE  ARGO.  II 

LOST. 

day  while  slowly  sailing 
Upon  a  summer's  sea, 
My  hand  in  water  trailing 
In  idle  reverie, 
Awakening  from  my  dreaming, 

I  saw  a  jewel  bright 
Down  through  the  depths  go  gleaming, 
And  vanish  out  of  sight. 

To-day  while  fondly  gazing 

Into  thine  eyes  of  brown, 
In  their  clear  depths  amazing 

Tenderly  looking  down, 
My  heart  went  from  my  keeping, 

I  know  not  how  nor  when. 
In  spite  of  all  my  seeking, 

I  find  it  not  again. 

My  ring  has  gone  forever, 

Far  down  beneath  the  wave. 
My  heart  returneth  never  ; 

Thine  eyes,  love,  are  its  grave. 

H.  G.  Dunham. 


12  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

INDISCRETION. 

[T^RETTY  little  maiden, 

Held  in  student's  arms, 
Blushing  like  a  rose-leaf, 
Heightening  thus  her  charms, 
Hears  the  student's  watch  tick, 

Very  loud  and  clear, 
Oh,  where  think  you  then,  sir, 
Was  her  little  ear  ? 

Blushingly  she  falters 

(Charming  little  miss) — 
"  Not  a  watch  in  college 

Ticks  so  loud  as  this." 
See,  then,  student-fellow 

Properly  enraged, 
Takes  the  first  train  home,  sir, 
Says  he  's  not  engaged. 

H.  G.  Dunham. 


TOO   UNFILIAL. 

>HE  always  seems  so  meek  and  mild, 
)     Her  air  so  gracious,  kind,  and  sweet, 
By  these  fair  ways  I  'd  be  beguiled 
And  fain  would  worship  at  her  feet. 


THE  ARGO.  13 

But — still — I  cannot  bend  the  knee, 
Though  oft  her  praises  I  have  sung, 

Till  I  can  see  why  she  should  be 
So  cruel  to  her  mother-tongue. 

JET.  S.  Underwood. 

INVITING. 

PRETTY  and  sweet,  ever  so  neat, 
Sitting  alone  in  a  tete-b-t£te  seat, 
Seeming  to  say  by  her  negligent  air, 
Come  and  sit  side  of  me,  sir,  if  you  dare. 

Saucy  and  pert,  dying  to  flirt, 
Knowing  the  ropes,  and  more  than  expert, 
When  she  goes  further,  and  seems  to  insist, 
Who  for  the  moment  would  dare  to  resist  ? 

D.  C.  Brewer. 

A  HEARTLESS  TASK. 

'HE  rhymester  sings 
An  endless  strain 
Of  smitten  hearts 

And  Cupid's  reign  ; 
Of  sweetest  lips 

And  eyes  and  hair  ; 
And  secrets  which 
But  two  can  share. 


14  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

But  do  you  know, 

(The  truth  to  own) 
The  rhymester's  heart 

Is  wrought  of  stone  ? 
To  fickle  maids 

He  gives  no  heed  : 
He  simply  writes 

What  men  will  read. 

He  rhymes  a  verse 

About  his  Jane, 
But  as  he  writes 

Oft  grows  profane  ; 
Then  finishing 

His  hasty  scrawl, 
He  curses  it 

And  girls  and  all. 

S.  T.  Livingston. 


THE  SOFTEST  TINT. 

RONDEL. 

*HE  softest  tint  that  nature  knows 
Reveals  its  beauty  through  a  blush, 

When  all  the  distant  skyland  glows 
At  evening  with  a  rosy  flush. 


THE  ARGO.  15 

And  when  to  lure  the  artist's  brush, 
The  peach  its  cheek  in  summer  shows, 

The  softest  tint  that  nature  knows 
Reveals  its  beauty  through  a  blush. 

Behind  the  ball-room's  curtained  plush 
You  '11  find,  when  begging  for  a  rose, 

That  while  the  maiden  answers,  Hush  ! 
And  just  outside  the  music  grows, 

The  softest  tint  that  nature  knows 
Reveals  its  beauty  through  a  blush. 

Z>.  C.  Brewer. 


YE  BALLADE  OF  YE  POLYTE 
HYGHWAYMEN. 


i. 


Y 


E  ancientt  coachman  grasped  his  cuppe 

And  quaffed  ye  myghtie  ale, 
And  eke  a  gryn  his  face  lytt  uppe, 
As  thus  he  told  hys  tale  : 


n. 


"Y'  fegges,  't  was  fortie  years  agone, 
A  score  of  myles  from  town, 

Ye  Brighton  mayl-coach,  alle  alone, 
Went  rattlyng  o'er  ye  down. 


1 6  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

III. 

"  Ye  coach  itt  had  three  mayds  aboard, 
Three  London  maydens  sweet, 

Who  laughed  ye  whiles  their  father  snored 
Upon  ye  hyndmost  seat. 

IV. 

"  When  uppe  there  came  two  hyghwaymen, 
Who  stopped  ye  coach  and  swore 

They  'd  kiss  ye  maydens,  there  and  then, 
Wythouten  pound  fyve-score. 

v. 

"  Then  out  there  spake  ye  London  wyght, 
'  I  've  pound  fyve-score  by  me  ; 

I  '11  gyve  itt  alle  yn  thys  sad  plyght, 
Soe  thatt  our  lyves  goe  free/ 

VI. 

"  But  then,  wyth  cheeks  of  reddest  hues 

Outspake  ye  prettiest  myss, 
'I  think  't  were  best  our  pounds  refuse, 

And  lett  them  have  their  kyss.' 

VII. 

"  Wyth  thatt  ye  thieves,  oblygyng  men, — 

To  be  polyte  alle  round, — 
Fyrst  kyssed  ye  mayds  each  one,  and  then,- 

They  took  ye  fyve-score  pound. 


THE  ARGO.  i 

VTII. 

"  Ah  !  yn  those  days  of  '44, 

'T  was  sport  to  dryve  ye  mayl, — 
Would  thatt  those  tymes  myght  come  once  more  ! 

And  would — I  had  more  ale  !  " 

E.  G.  Benedict. 


"  CASTLES  IN  SPAIN." 

BALLADE. 

MET  a  man  of  long  ago 

Who  walked  the  king's  highway, 
His  coat  was  torn,  his  step  was  slow, 

And  his  scanty  hair  was  grey  ; 
Yet  still  he  sang  a  roundelay, 
And  this  the  glad  refrain  : 
"  Whene'er  I  'm  sad,  I  wend  my  way 
To  castles  built  in  Spain." 

I  said  to  him,  "  Why  sing  you  so, 

And  why  are  your  looks  so  gay  ? 
Your  wrinkled  features  plainly  show 

That  past  is  your  lifetime's  May, 
And  yet,  bowed  'neath  old  age's  sway, 

You  sing  that  merry  strain, 
And,  poor  as  a  mouse,  can  go,  you  say, 

To  castles  built  in  Spain." 


1 8  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

The  old  man  smiled,  and  said,  "  You  know 

That  life  is  not  always  play. 
'T  is  true  my  hair  is  white  as  snow 

And  I  'm  weary  with  life's  long  fray, 
But  the  realm  of  Thought  is  mine  alway, 

And  that  is  a  vast  domain, 
And,  poor  or  rich,  one's  thoughts  can  stray 

To  castles  built  in  Spain." 

L'ENVOI. 

Then  who  for  a  better  lot  could  pray, 

Or  who  of  his  own  complain, 
Whose  mind  is  ever  free  to  stay 

In  castles  built  in  Spain  ? 

E.  G.  Benedict. 


BALLADE  OF  THE  HAUNTED  STREAM. 


bIKE  some  fair  girl  who  hastes   to  meet  her 
swain 

Yet  hesitates  each  step  with  maiden  fear, 
So  the  still  stream  glides  downward  to  the  main, 
Pausing  at  times  in  fern-set  pools, — and  here, 
Where  bend  the  willow  branches  to  the  clear 


THE  ARGO.  19 

Deep  pool  beneath,  and  where  the  forest  hoar 
Seems  whispering  old  tales  of  magic  lore, 

They  say  by  night  the  fairies  dance  in  glee, 
And  on  the  moss  beside  the  curving  shore 

The  Queen  of  Elfland  holds  her  revelry. 

n. 

From  beds  in  purple  buds  where  they  have  lain 

Until  the  mystic  midnight  time  drew  near, 
To  chimes  of  harebells  and  the  far  off  strain 
Of  forest  melodies,  the  elves  appear 
In  all  the  gorgeousness  of  goblin  gear. 

With  brilliant  dress  the  golden-beetle  wore, 
With  scarlet  plumes  the  humming-bird  once 

bore, 
They  come  in  troops  from  every  flower  and 

tree 
And    round  the    fairy   throne    in    concourse 

pour, — 
The  Queen  of  Elfland  holds  her  revelry. 


in. 


Yet  mortal  eyes  see  not  the  goblin  train 

Whose  bells  sound  faintly  on  the  passer's  ear, — 

Who  dares  attempt  a  secret  sight  to  gain 

Feels  the  sharp  prick  of  many  an  elfin  spear, 
And  hears,  too  late,  the  low  malicious  jeer, 


20  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

As  long  thorn-javelins  his  body  gore, 
Until,  defeated,  breathless,  bruised  and  sore, 

He  turns  him  from  the  haunted  ground  to 

flee, 
And  murmurs  low,  as  grace  he  doth  implore, 

"  The  Queen  of  Elfland  holds  her  revelry  ! " 

L'ENVOI. 

Sweet  mortal  maid,  that  fairy  world  of  yore 
Has  vanished — with  the  midnights  that  are  o'er  ; 

Yet  come  and  sit  beside  the  stream  with  me, 
That  I,  beholding  thee,  may  say,  "  Once  more 

The  Queen  of  Elfland  holds  her  revelry." 

E.  G.  Benedict. 


THE  NIEBELUNGEN  LIED. 

SAT  in  my  room  at  midnight  and  read  of  the 

days  of  old  ; 
I  read  of  Sigmund  and  Signy,  and  Volsung 

war-king  bold  ; 
I  read  of  the  battles  and  sea  fights,  of  harps  and 

stirring  glees  ; 

And  how  in  their  storm-tossed  galleys  the  bold  earls 
sailed  the  seas. 


THE  ARGO.  21 

I  read  of  harpings  and  joyance,   now  legends  in 

Sagas  told  ; 
And  how  Queen  Borghild's  fearful  hate  lurked  in 

the  shining  gold  ; 
I  read  how  the  great  tree  Branstock  grew  upon  the 

wide  hall  floor, 
And  the  massive  rings  of  silver  bound  fast  the  castle 

door. 

The  Northern  legends  seized  my  soul;  they  wrought 

in  my  brain  like  fire, 
My  heart-strings  throbbed  and  fiercely  strained  with 

a  vague  and  strange  desire  ; 
But  past  is  the  age  of  vikings,  no  more  through  the 

brazen  horn 
Will  blow  the  breath  of  warriors,  in  greeting  to  the 

morn. 

The  olden  laws  and  customs  are  shattered  as  Sig- 

mund's  glaive  ; 
No  more  shall  the  golden  galleys  be  borne  on  the 

rushing  wave  ; 
The  mighty  kings  and  warriors  no  more  shall  wield 

their  sway, 
But  the  tales  of  their  deeds  of  daring  stir  strong  our 

blood  to-day. 

y.  W.  Allen,  Jr. 


Selections  from  TTbe  Htbenaeum. 


FRA  GIOVANNI. 

[Giovanni  del  Papa,  the  tenor  of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  is 
dead.  If  he  had  not  been  a  monk,  he  would  have  been  the 
greatest  operatic  star  of  the  century. —  Telegram.'} 

WHAT  !  did  God  then  give  this  man  a  voice, 
And  he  not  use  it  ?     Unto  singing  born, 
And  let  his  gift  through  all  his  life  be  lost  ? 
Since,  save  to  careless  strangers,  at  the  mass, 
Who  wondered  at  his  passionate,  rich  tone, 
The  singer  of  the  Sistine  was  as  mute  ; 
Yea,  being  mute,  was  wise. 

For  though  he  might 

Have  been  the  world's  crowned  King  of  Song, 
And  known  the  thrill  of  royal  power, 
As  all  men's  lips  hung  breathlessly  on  his, 
While  with  white  faces  and  with  waiting  hearts 
They  strained  to  catch  the  music  marvellous, — 
23 


24  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

Still,  discontent  would  come  ;  the  flower 
Of  fame  would  lose  its  freshness,  sad,  gray  skies 
Darken  the  morning  sun,  and  there  would  be 
But  disappointment  for  the  end  of  all. 

So,  being  cloistered,  he  was  well  content. 
We  never  knew  what  sudden  storms  of  sound 
Broke  in  upon  his  dreaming  loneliness, 
To  beat  and  burst  against  the  four  bare  walls, 
Till  all  the  fragments  fell  to  softer  cadences, 
And  melody  stole  in  upon  his  hungry  ear. 
Sweeter,  for  him,  the  solemn  sound  of  bells, 
Calling  the  brethren  to  their  daily  prayers, 
Sweeter  the  incense  slowly  swung, 
The  chanting  hushed  and  low,  the  voice 
Of  benediction  and  of  perfect  peace, 
Than  all  the  glittering  glory  of  the  world. 

So  sleep  soft,  Giovanni ;  may  thine  ears 
Soon  hear  the  music  of  the  morning  stars. 

Bliss  Perry. 


A  RELIC   OF   THE    PAST. 

WHERE  buildings  rear  their  roofs  on  high, 
Hard  by  a  city's  busiest  street, 
And  constant  noise  of  passers-by 
Is  heard,  and  tread  of  hurrying  feet ; 


THE  ATHENAEUM.  2$ 

Where  eager  thoughts  their  fellows  greet, 
An  ancient  churchyard  seems  misplaced, 

So  near  where  men  for  traffic  meet, 
The  quaint  inscriptions  half  effaced. 

But  once,  afar  from  curious  eye, 

This  churchyard  was  a  still  retreat 
That  voices  seldom  came  anigh  ; 

Nor  round  it  commerce  surged  and  beat. 
But  many  a  year,  with  cold  and  heat, 

Has  fled.     The  names  are  half  erased 
Upon  the  tombstones,  once  complete — 

The  quaint  inscriptions  half  effaced. 

Here  summer  violets  dark  and  shy 

Scent  all  the  air  with  perfume  sweet, 
And  feathered  songsters  of  the  sky 

With  joyous  songs  the  passers  treat  ; 
Here  winter  winds,  with  hail  and  sleet, 

Go  whirling  past  in  furious  haste  ; 
And  snow  wraps  in  its  winding-sheet 

The  quaint  inscriptions  half  effaced. 

L'ENVOI. 

Those  words,  now  almost  obsolete, 

May  tell  of  men  and  maids  that  graced 

Stations  with  glory  once  replete, 
The  quaint  inscriptions  half  effaced. 

T.  D.  Knight. 


26  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

A  WITHERED  LEAF. 

SEE  a  leaf  upon  my  window  sill, 

Yellow  and  seared,  beat  down  by  autumn 

rain, 

And  by  no  art  can  it  again  regain 
Its  color  faded  out  by  hoar-frosts  chill, 
Though  it  should  be  essayed  by  magic  skill. 
And  so  a  withered  hope,  an  aching  pain, 
A  heavy  sigh  the  lips  can  scarce  restrain, 
Regret,  that  keenest  pleasure  ne'er  can  kill, 
Full  oftentimes  we  unexpected  find 

In  hearts  where  every  throb  seems  only  joy. 
And  oft,  with  clinging  sorrow  intertwined, 

Whose  clasp  no  merriment  can  quite  destroy, 
We  find  a  heart,  to  sadness  now  resigned, 
That  once  was  happiness  without  alloy. 

T.  D.  Knight. 

TO  MY  PIPE. 

|  H  !  guardian  genius, 

As  I  hold  the  amber-tipped  stem 
Firm  set  between  my  teeth,  to-night, 

Thou  seem'st  e'en  a  gem 

That  kings  might  leave  their  thrones  to  gain  ; 

Bishops  forsake  their  church  ; 

And  man  might,  sometimes,  even  leave 

His  sweetheart  in  the  "  lurch," 


THE  ATHENAEUM.  2^ 

And  to  thy  magic  influence, 

Thy  subtlety  and  art, 

Might  find  his  passions  bound  by  thoughts 

That  love  can  ne'er  impart. 

For,  like  all  things  the  dearest 

That  God  hath  given  man, 

Thy  beauty  's  in  thy  cheapness  ! 

For  lo  !  on  every  hand, 

Like  water  and  like  sunshine, 

With  bridal-veil  or  pall, 

In  gladness  or  in  sorrow, 

Thou  art  in  reach  of  all ! 

Tho'  some  shall  mould  thee  out  of  foam, 

Whence  Aphrodite  springs  to  them, 

Or  bind  thy  bowl  with  bands  of  gold, 

Or  tip  with  amber-clouds  thy  stem  ; 

Others  shall  form  thee  out  of  clay, 

Nor  for  that  prize  thee  aught  the  less, 

Or  shun  thy  sftveet  companionship 

In  gladness  or  distress. 

No,  in  every  rank  or  station, 

In  every  tribe  or  caste, 

There  is  no  tie  will  stronger  bind, 

Or  that  will  longer  last  ; 

Then  come  and  be  my  mistress ! 

Yet  treat  me  with  all  grace, 

For  the  mistress  with  the  master 

Should  never  change  her  place." 

f.  W.  Olds. 


28  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

SKETCHES  IN  SONNETS, 
i. 

IN    A    HAMMOCK. 

WITHIN  a  hammock  swaying  to  and  fro, 
Where  sun  and  shady  trees  conspire  to  throw 
Mosaics  bright  and  dark  across  the  grass, 
Reclines  at  noon  a  white-clad  pretty  lass, 
With  bronze-tinged  hair  wind-tangled  o'er  a  brow 
That  arches  lovingly  o'er  eyes  where  pass 
Sweet  girlish  thoughts.     Twin  parted  lips  below 
Curve  coyly  to  their  source,  and  scarce  surpass 
The  flitting  tints  on  cheeks  and  rounded  throat. 
Soft  open  laces  over  neck  and  arms 
Grant  modest  glimpses  of  half-hidden  charms, 
And  grace  the  folds  of  clinging, Jawn,  which  float 
In  careful  negligence  to  where  her  feet 
Peep  forth,  the  blushing  clover  blows  to  greet. 

n. 

WASHED    ASHORE. 

Cold  gray  fogs,  drifting  westward  o'er  the  land, 

Shut  out  all  distance,  and  enshroud  a  band 

Of  mute,  unhatted  fishermen  around 

A  corpse  with  face  upturned.     At  morn  they  found 


THE  ATHENAEUM.  29 

Her  lying  thus,  life  raped  ;  one  slender  hand 
Caressed  by  each  sea  wave  that  with  the  sand 
Sought  to  conceal  their  deed  ;  her  hair  unbound, 
Like  some  poor  saint's  areola  ;  her  round 
Sweet  face,  with  death-kissed  lips  and  staring  eyes, 
White  as  her  breast,  that  never  more  would  rise 
In  quickened  breaths  to  greet  her  coming  lover. 
The  fishermen,  in  silent  sorrow,  cover 
The  fair  dead  form,  and,  kneeling,  pray  ;  afar 
The  waters  mourn  contritely  on  the  bar. 

C.  H.  Perry. 


A  TRIO. 

WISDOM. 

CLOSES  fade  and  loving  passes  ; 
I  Y         Knowledge  only  bides  alway  ; 

Downcast  eyes  of  witching  lasses 
Steal  thy  peace  of  mind  away. 

LOVE. 

Minds  forget  and  books  grow  musty, 
Love  alone  takes  care  away  ; 

Hearts  are  young  when  brains  are  rusty, 
Love  I  will  while  love  I  may. 


3O  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

DEATH. 

Foolish  world  with  foolish  guesses, 
Books  are  idle,  love  is  clay  ; 

Yet  to  still  the  doubt  that  presses, 
Guess  on,  guess  on,  till  my  day. 

C.  H.  Perry. 


VILLANELLE. 

i^OWN  on  the  shore  the  Ice-king  holds  full  sway, 
Swift  the  sea-gulls  swim  the  waters,  bare, 
Where  the  strong  waves  dash  up  their  icy 
spray. 

When  shrieking  gusts  the  naked  oak-trees  flay, 

And  all  their  leaves  in  lofty  circles  bear, 

Down  on  the  shore  the  Ice-king  holds  full  sway. 

Far  as  the  eyes  can  reach,  there  stretch  away, 
The  brownish  lines  of  shore,  all  sleet-clad  there, 
Where  the  strong  waves  dash  up  their  icy  spray. 

The  azure  blue  has  dimmed  to  sullen  gray, 
No  speck  of  color  shows  itself,  save  where 
Down  on  the  shore  the  Ice-king  holds  full  sway. 


THE  ATHENAEUM.  31 

The  fisher-boats  in  many  colors  gay, 
The  greenish  weeds,  all  show  a  blinding  glare 
Where  the  strong  waves  dash  up  their  icy  spray. 

So  through  the  passionless  December  day, 
While  the  wee  snow-flakes  flutter  through  the  air, 
Down  on  the  shore  the  Ice-king  holds  full  sway, 
Where  the  strong  waves  dash  up  their  icy  spray. 

G.  O.  Copeland. 


THE  MEETING. 

y  OWN  in  the  meadow's  flowers, 

Close  by  the  purling  rill, 
Keeping  his  tryst  for  hours 
Stands  he,  and  listens  still. 

Tripping  over  the  daisies, 

Borne  on  the  softest  wind, 
Comes  she,  through  meadow's  mazes, 

Only  a  tick  behind. 

Quick  !    in  his  ear  love's  prating  ; 
Quick  !  kiss  his  cheek  so  brown. 

He  was  a  tall  reed,  waiting  ; 
She  was  a  thistle  down. 

P.  W.  Blackmer. 


32  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

SONNET  TO  THE  MELIAN  ZEUS. 

*HOU  mighty  Zeus,  benign  yet  grand  appears 
Thy  majesty.     High  o'er  thy  bending  brows 
Thy  forehead  thrills  with  thought ;    thine 

eyes  arouse 

My  soul,  with  them,  to  contemplate  the  years, 
Dispassioned.     Thy  conception  so  far  nears 
Some  Soul's  deep  sense  of  God,  that  it  endows 
Thy  marble  with  a  grace  that  scarce  allows 
The  name  of  idol.     Now  my  vision  clears, 
And  on  thy  sculptured  form  of  stone  I  read 
The  written  essence  of  some  ancient's  blind 
Outreaching  for  the  only  God.     Through  thee, 
Thy  best,  grand  Zeus  of  Greece,  I  feel  the  need 
Of  man  outspoken.     Sculptor,  I  would  find 
Thy  soul,  and  claim  its  fellowship  for  me. 

C.  H.  Perry. 


MY  QUEEN'S  REIGN. 

RAIN  in  the  west. 
Dark  billows  of  storm  clouds  are  creeping 

Over  the  hills,  while  the  mist  in  the  air 
Falls  with  a  chill  on  the  charge  in  my  keeping, 
Nora,  so  fond,  with  a  rose  in  her  hair. 


THE  ATHENAEUM.  33 

Oh,  that  her  heart  grows  no  colder  ! 
Would  I  could  safely  enfold  her  ! 
Rain  in  the  West. 

Rain  in  my  face. 

Big,   wet   drops   are   falling  and   breaking   and 

dripping 
Down  from  my  hat  and  like  tears  from  my 

eyes, 

While  at  my  side  in  my  coat  she  is  tripping, 
And  for  her  "  thanks  " — 't  is  a  poor  sacrifice. 
Oh,  that  her  heart  grows  no  colder  ! 
Yes,  I  will  speak  when  I  'm  bolder. 
Rain  in  my  face. 

Rain  in  my  heart. 

Like  soft,  summer  showers  her  rare  smiles  are 

bringing 

Life  to  my  heart  and  its  garden  of  weeds  ; 
Eyes    bright   with  dew  start  Love's  flowers  a- 

singing, 
Nora,    thy   queen's   grace    my    heart    palace 

pleads. 

Oh,  shall  I  ever  be  bolder  ? 
There — then  I  ought  to  have  told  her — 
Reign  in  my  heart. 

P.  W.  Blackmer. 

3 


34  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

BEFORE  HER  GLASS. 

HE  said  that  my  gown  made  me  look  like  a 
queen, 

Though  he  never  saw  one,  I  am  sure  ; 
That  my  hair  had  a  wave  and  a  shimmering  sheen, 

And  my  mouth  was  alluring,  demure. 
He  said  that  my  airs  had  a  womanly  grace, 

Though  he  knows  I  am  only  a  lass  ; 
That  my  eyes — Pshaw  !  the  truth  about  figure  and 

face 
I  can  see  for  myself  in  the  glass. 

But  this  is  n't  all  that  he  told  me  to-night ; 

There  was  something — a  word  or  two  more, 
Which  did  n't  sound  quite  like  the  rest,  though  he 

might 

Say  it  just  as  he  praised  what  I  wore. 
Yet  he  told  me  he  loved — (am  I  silly  ?)  loved  me, 

Though  he  knows  I  am  only  a  lass, 
And  I  think — but,  oh  dear  !  how  I  wish   I  could 

see 
Just  exactly  how  much,  in  the  glass. 

P.  W.Blackmer. 


THE  ATHENAEUM.  35 

OCTOBER  MUSINGS. 

HY  do  the  graceful  elm-tree's  leaves 
In  Fall  from  green  to  yellow  turn 
And  why  the  maple's  clustered  sheaves 
With  varied  crimsons  deeply  burn  ? 


W 


Is  it  the  Autumn's  frosty  kiss, 

In  sport  upon  them  lightly  pressed, 

Which  makes  them,  in  their  short-lived  bliss, 
Blush  deep,  alarmed,  and  half-distressed  ? 

Or  do  the  fays,  with  brush  and  paints, 
And  palette  in  each  cunning  hand, 

Adorn  the  trees  like  pictured  saints 
Who  in  cathedral  windows  stand, 

Coming  when  mortals  all  at  night 

In  deepest  sleep  are  fettered  fast, 
And  flitting  ere  the  morning  light 

Reveals  the  spells  their  art  has  cast  ? 

Or  do  they  flush  in  haughty  scorn, 
Defying  Winter's  coming  reign  ? 
Ah,  no,  such  fancies  flee  forlorn, 

For  it  's  the  decomposition  and  resorption  of 
the  chlorophyll  bodies  in  the  epidermis  cells  of 
exogenous  stems,  that  every  year  renews  the  stain. 

A.  W.  Underwood. 


36  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

SONNET. 

*O-DAY  amid  the  throng  I  saw  a  face 

On  which  my  eyes  had  never  looked  before, 
Yet,  as  I  conned  the  features  o'er  and  o'er, 
Strange  corners  in  my  memory  bloomed  apace 
With  flowers  of  recollection  ;  old  by-ways 
Of  half-remembrance  claimed  me  once  more  ; 
Till  the  thought  seized  me  that  upon  the  shore 
Of  being,  where,  before  this  idiot  race 
Of  life  did  claim  us,  I  must  think  we  dwelt, 
I  had  that  sweet  face  seen, — it  may  be,  felt. 
The  glad  hope  stirred  within  me  as  I  mused  : 
Existence  is  a  circle,  and  this  augury  gives  ; 
I  yet  shall  ask,  "  How  have  the  hard  worlds  used 
Thee,  Love,  in  all  thy  intervening  lives  ?  " 

A.  H.  Talman. 


ADRIFT. 

bOVE  is  like  an  open  sea, 
He  who  loses  chart  must  drift. 
Youth  and  age  can  ne'er  agree 

Who  the  pilot  is  to  be. 
Wisdom  begs,  but  beauty's  plea, 

With  her  smile,  will  gain  the  gift ; 
Love  is  like  an  open  sea, 

He  who  loses  chart  must  drift. 

P.  W.  Blackmer. 


THE  ATHENAEUM.  37 

BOCCHERINI'S  MINUET. 

upon  the  night  air  steals  the  music,  soft 
and  low, 

Trembling  like  a  wind-swayed  leaflet  swing- 
ing to  and  fro  ; 

Ah,  the  whispered  moaning, 
Ah,  the  soft  intoning, 
Ah,  the  dancers,  buried  long  ago  ! 

Louder  grows  the  music  now,  and  now  a  flickering 

glow 

Shines    upon   the  ghostly  dancers,    moving  there 
below  ; 

Ah,  the  courtly  graces, 
Ah,  the  eager  faces, 
Of  the  dancers,  buried  long  ago  ! 

How  the  jewels  glisten, 
Diamonds,  lustre-robbing  ! 

How  the  spectres  listen 
To  the  music,  sobbing ! 

O'er  the  waxen  floor  the  bowing  shadows  slowly 

go; 

Then  they  vanish  quickly,  as  the  north  wind  drives 
the  snow  ; 

Was  it  only  seeming  ? 
Was  I  only  dreaming 
Of  the  dancers,  buried  long  ago  ? 

G.  A.  Copeland. 


38  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

WHO  GAVE  THE  MOON  HER  RING? 

'HE  moon  came  out  with  a  ring  to-night, 
The  bold  stares  of  her  guests  undergoing  ; 
But  her  smile 
Would  beguile 
Any  lover  who  thinks  he  can  read  aright 

What  the  blush  on  her  cheek  may  be  showing. 

The  wind  looks  askance  at  her  hand  so  fair, 
While  he  flurries  her  hair  with  his  blowing, 
And  the  clouds 
Sweep  in  crowds 

By  the  maid  with  the  ring  and  the  silver  hair, 
And  the  stars  hot  with  jealousy  glowing. 

Did  they  think  the  moon  too  fair  to  be  wooed  ? 
Ah  !  the  tryst  where  the  blue  lake  is  flowing  ! 
I  could  tell 
Very  well 

What  she  said  to  the  ring  and  the  lover  who  sued, 
But  I  fear  you  would  think  me  too  knowing. 

P.  W.  Blackmer. 


THE  ATHENAEUM.  39 

STONE  HILL. 

1853. 

CLOCKS  and  jagged  rocks,  dense  shades  ; 
\\         Wet  moss  and  clinging  vines  and  mould  ; 
Hot  checkerberries,  blush-cheeked  maids, 

And  falling  sunlit  leaves  of  gold  ! 
The  chatty  brook  flows  dull  and  chill  ; 

All  nature  frowns.     Life's  sweets  are  tart. 
I  've  played  and  lost — but  you,  fair  Lill, 
Think  it  's  a  joke  to  break  a  heart. 

1883. 

The  very  spot  !     'T  is  little  changed, 

With  trees,  old  jagged  rocks  and  gray  ; 
Deep  there  below  the  brooklet  ranged, 

Fringed  long  with  mosses,  flowers  gay. 
The  place  is  dear,  this  lovely  hill, 

Because,  just  thirty  years  ago, 
'T  was  here  I  knelt  before  you,  Lill, — 

But  bless  my  luck,  you  answered  "No" 

P.  W.  Blackmer. 


40  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

APHRODITE'S  COLORS. 

"HEY  say  the  ancient  poets  tell 
How  Aphrodite  used  to  dwell 
At  Lemnos  girded  by  the  sea. 
And  as,  with  brown  hair  floating  free, 
She  rested,  on  a  summer's  day, 
In  shaded  afternoon  repose, 
She  chanced  to  see  a  dancing  ray 

Of  sunshine  kiss  a  damask  rose  ; 
And  as  each  petal  blushed  more  red, 
Fair  Aphrodite  spake  and  said  : 

"  Poor  helpless  things,  it  grieves  me  sore 
That  your  love  should  so  soon  be  o'er. 
Bright  ray,  ere  long  you  '11  pass  away, 
And  you,  dear  rose,  will  fade  to-day." 
She  plucks  the  rose,  e'en  as  she  speaks, 

Touches  the  ray  to  her  hair,  and  behold  ! 
The  blush  rose  blooms  in  her  queenly  cheeks, 

And  her  brown  hair  changes  to  rippling  gold. 
And  the  fairest  goddess  became  more  fair, 
With  her  blushing  cheeks  and  gold-flecked  hair. 

T.  £>.  Knight. 


THE  ATHENAEUM.  41 

THE  FRIAR  AND  THE  FOOL. 

rjRIAR  ANSELMO  lazily  lay 

r^     Under  the  convent's  shade, 

As  a  fool  passed,  singing  a  roundelay 

In  praise  of  the  jester's  trade, 
How  a  fool  was  mightier  than  a  king 

Or  his  court  could  ever  be. 
"  H-m-m  !  "  said  the  Friar,  "  the  song  I  'd  sing 

Would  be  of  another  key. 

"  I  'd  sing  of  the  time  when  your  keenest  joke 

Falls  flat  on  the  silent  air. 
I  'd  sing  of  the  bones  your  master  broke 

When  he  threw  you  down  the  stair. 
I  'd  sing  of  your  back  all  scarred  with  wounds, 

Of  the  tawdry  dress  you  wear  ; 
Of  the  meal  you  and  your  master's  hounds, 

In  the  greasy  kennel,  share." 

"  I  'd  sing  of  a  life  without  a  friend, 

Of  a  selfish  and  lonely  death — " 
But  the  fool  never  heard  the  sermon's  end, 

For  the  Friar  was  out  of  breath  ; 
So  the  fool  on  his  way  did  steadily  keep, 

And  never  an  answer  made, 
And  Friar  Anselmo  went  to  sleep 

Under  the  convent's  shade. 

G.  A.  Copeland. 


42  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

YE  ARBUTUS. 

[7MGHTE  daintie  is  ye  arbutus, 
\\         As  annie  flower  may  be  ; 

It  nestleth  on  ye  mountain  side 
With  wondrous  modestie. 

Full  often  doth  ye  Junior  love 
Ye  mountaine  side  to  climbe, 

To  plucke  ye  fragrante  arbutus, 
And  beare  it  home  betime. 

Ye  Sophomore  it  doth  delighte 

To  parte  ye  withered  leaves, 
Whyle  from  ye  snowie  buds  beneathe 

Ye  garland  he  unweaves. 

And  e'en  ye  Freshmanne  hath  been  knowne 

To  laye  it  in  a  downie  nest, 
And  sende  it  wythe  a  daintie  verse 

Unto  ye  mayde  he  loveth  best. 

But  grief  hath  come  upon  them  all, 
And  cache  doth  angrie  curses  hurle, 

For  cache  hath  sent  ye  arbutus 
Unto  ye  selfe-same  girl. 

Wyllys  Rede. 


THE  ATHENAEUM.  43 

TO  THE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

A  SONNET. 

'HOU  dainty  star  of  shaded  pink  and  white, 
That   in   the   morn  of  Spring-time  makest 

known 

That  Winter's  cold  and  cloudy  night  is  flown 
Before  the  dawning  day  of  warmth  and  light  ; 

Who  seemest  like  a  maiden's  fancy  free, 
The  shy  expression  of  her  joyful  heart, 
Untouched  by  pain  or  sin,  unshaped  by  art, 
Embodiment  of  simple  modesty, — 

I  would  that  ere  thy  beams  shall  pale  and  die 
Amid  the  blaze  of  Summer's  noontide  glow, 
And  ere  that  coy  and  bashful  witchery 
Give  place  unto  grave  ways  and  bolder  brow, 

My  lonely  life  may  sweeter,  holier,  be 
For  thy  soft  grace  and  perfect  purity. 

W.  S.  Pratt. 


44  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

IMPRESSIONS  A  LA  FIFTEENTH 
AMENDMENT. 

BE  sho't-stop  winks  when  de  ball  comin'  hot, 
An'  say  he  did  n'  see  it  w'en  fust  it  sta't, 
De  fielder  he  cuss  w'en  he  drop  de  fly 
An'  holler  to  de  cap'en  de  sun  's  in  his  eye, 
De  batter  mighty  mad  w'en  he  miss  de  ball, 
But  de  umpire,  he  don'  never  care  at  all. 

De  baseman  scowl  w'en  he  hab  to  jump, 
De  ketcher  tired  w'en  de  foul  tips  thump, 
De  cap'en  weep  w'en  de  men  don'  slide, 
An'  de  scorer  root  w'en  de  base-hits  tied, 
De  pitcher  sad  w'en  he  gib  seb'n  balls, 
But  the  umpire  leer  ebry  time  dat  he  calls. 

De  runner  brace  w'en  de  ball  am  passed, 
De  pitcher  squirm  w'en  de  hits  come  fast, 
An'  fire  de  ball  at  de  striker's  head, 
W'en  de  nine  git  blanked,  de  backer  am  fled, 
De  gran'-stand  cheers  w'en  the  fab'rites  win, 
But  de  umpire  look  like  he  made  out  ob  tin. 

De  manager  swear  w'en  de  ball  pass  de  fence, 

An'  de  dead-beats  yell,  "  Oh,  darn  de  expense  !  " 

De  scorer  fix  up  de  errors  at  de  close, 

An'  de  nine  dat  wins,  dey  yell  for  deir  foes, 

But  de  umpire,  he  never  smile  nor  frown, 

But  seems  so  big  he  can't  look  roun'. 

A.  W.  Underwood. 


THE  ATHENAEUM.  45 

SONNET. 

stood  at  eventide  among  the  ferns, 
And  paused  to  choose  the  rarest  of  them  all, 
While   slanting   rays,  through    piny-needles 

flaked, 

In  gilded  glory  crowned  her,  in  their  fall, 
And  fern  and  harebell  bowed  in  wavy  grace 
For  that  she  deigned  to  notice  them  at  all. 
The  tufted  moss  a  velvet  carpet  lay, 
Proud  if  her  rustling  dress  might  even  touch, 
And  where,  perchance,  her  springy  footstep  fell, 
It  shrank,  abashed,  as  having  asked  too  much. 
Thus,  Nature,  never  doubting  that  in  her 
As  much  of  innocence  as  grace  did  meet, 
Poured  all  its  golden  glory  'round  her  head, 
And  bowed  in  aspen-rev'rence  at  her  feet. 

F.  W.  Olds. 


Selections  from  £be  jfortnigbt 

WHERE   HAREBELL   DROOPS. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

WHERE  harebell  droops, 
A  horseman  stoops 

And  plucks  the  flower. 
Would  that  some  sprite 
Could  grant  its  sight 
Protecting  power. 

Shadows  may  come ; 
Bees  cease  their  hum  ; 

The  world  grow  still ; 
Save  in  the  night, 
With  faint  moonlight, 

Sings  gurgling  rill. 

We  cannot  tell 
When  death's  sad  bell 

Will  o'er  us  toll ; 
We  cannot  know 
Or  weal  or  woe 
Awaits  the  soul. 

Samuel  Abbott. 
47 


48  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

MY    SHIP. 

[""TAR  away,  on  ocean's  bosom, 
""*     Where  the  sky,  on  every  hand, 
Stretches  till  it  meets  the  water, 

Leagues  away  from  sight  of  land, 
Slowly  forging  through  the  ripples 

Raised  by  whiffs  of  evening  breeze, 
Gently  rising,  softly  sinking, 

On  majestic,  swelling  seas, 
Rides  a  ship,  a  lovely  vision 

Seen  against  the  sunset  glow, 
Every  sail  spread  wide  to  capture 

Breaths  of  wind  that  come  and  go. 

Night  comes,  but  must  pale  his  shadows  ; 

Mellow  moonlight,  tenderly 
Every  wavelet's  crest  caressing, 

Makes  a  path  across  the  sea, 
Spreads  a  silver  mantle  o'er  it ; 

Westward  steers  my  ship,  and  soon 
Blowing  free  the  night-wind  rises, 

Fills  her  sails  and  speeds  her  on. 

Wind  of  night,  blow  strong  and  steady, 

Wayward  billows,  gentle  be  ; 
Starry  sky,  look  kindly  downward, 

Bring  my  sailor  home  to  me  ! 

T.  M.  Banks. 


TffS  FORTNIGHT.  49 

TO   MY   PONY. 

AFTER  BURNS. 

*HOU  'st  borne  me  safe  o'er  classic  soil, 
And  safe  thro'  monie  a  bloody  broil, 
And  gi'n  me  help  in  a*  my  toil, 

My  bonnie  steed. 
Let  ithers  burn  the  midnight  oil 

Wha  hate  thy  btted. 

Wi'  ye,  thro*  Gallia's  fertile  land, 
Wi'  ye,  to  Britain's  rocky  strand, 
I  followed  Caesar's  conq'ring  band, 

My  trottin'  pride, 
Wha,  led  by  sae  sma'  mucker's  hand, 

I  swiftly  ride. 

Wi'  ye  I  enter  Ilium's  walls, 

And  wander  thro'  auld  Priam's  halls, 

And  sigh  when  valiant  Hector  falls, 

My  pony  swift, 
And  laugh  when  sae  puir  grubber  calls 

To  get  a  lift. 

Guid  health  to  thee,  my  bonnie  steed, 
Guid  health  to  a'  thy  bonnie  breed  ! 
Whene'er  a  bit  o'  help  I  need, 

I  '11  gae  to  thee. 
Thou  'st  iver  been  i'  word  and  deed 

A  friend  to  me. 

/.  5.  UnderhilL 

4 


50  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

CLASSICAL  CRITICISM. 

21    B.C. 

Horace  on  a  summer  afternoon, 
Well  primed  with  sweet  Falernian,  let  us  say, 
Lulled  by  the  far-off  brooklet's  drowsy  croon, 
To  a  half-doze  in  a  haphazard  way, 
Scratched  off  a  half  a  dozen  careless  rhymes, 
As  was  his  habit.     When  next  day  he  came 
Awake  to  work,  he  read  them  several  times, 

In  vain  attempt  to  catch  their  sense  and  aim. 
"  What  was  I  thinking  of  ?     Blest  if  I  know, 
Jupiter  !     What 's  the  difference  ?    Let  them  go  !  " 

1886  A.D. 

"  Lines  twelve  to  twenty  are  in  great  dispute," 

(Most  learnedly  the  lecturer  doth  speak,) 
"  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  refute 

Orelli's  claim  they  're  taken  from  the  Greek. 
I  think,  with  Bentley,  Horace's  purpose  here 

Is  irony,  and  yet  I  do  not  know 
But  Dillenberger's  reading  is  more  clear, 

For  which  he  gives  eight  arguments,  although 
Wilkins  gives  twelve  objections  to  the  same  " — 
So  on  (ad  infinituni).     Such  is  fame  ! 

G*  L*  Richardson. 


THE  FORTNIGHT.  51 

SONNET— A  LEAF. 

WITHIN  these  ancient  pages  laid  to  sleep, 
By  dainty  fingers  or  a  stronger  hand, 
A  leaf,  a  stranger  in  a  foreign  land, 
Whose  faded  veins  some  memory  fondly  keep. 
Perchance,  fresh  moistened  by  the  blinding  tear, 
Or  kissed  in  trembling  joy,  it  found  a  rest 
Within  the  tome,  fit  host  for  such  a  guest. 
Is  it  the  wail  of  the  poor  heart-broken  Lear, 
Or  love  responsive,  that  its  heart  would  sing  ? 
Crumbled  to  dust.     Yet  is  the  leaf's  soul  fled, 
If  on  the  vellum,  image  of  the  dead, 
An  impress  clings,  type  of  the  living  thing  ? 
Thus,  mortal  frame,  when  thou  shalt  fade  away, 
Thy  shadowed  self,  a  spirit,  leaves  the  clay. 

Samuel  Abbott. 

A  COQUETTE. 

steals  blind  Cupid's  arrows  from  his  quiver, 
And  barbs  them  with  the  brightness  of  her 

eyes, 
Their  tips  she  lightly  feathers,  Heaven  forgive  her ! 

With  the  redness  of  the  lips  you  idolize. 
She  burnishes  their  points,  with  drooping  lashes  ; 

In  the  soft  bewildering  meshes  of  her  hair 
She  deftly  sets  a  dart  ;  heartward  it  flashes, 

Her  sweet  voice  laughs  and  mocks  at  your  despair. 

J5.  A.  Blackmer. 


52  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

HYLAS. 

I  ANY  years  have  left  their  shadows  on  the 

pathless  flow  of  Time  ; 
Many  bards  have  with  soft  music   sung 

their  lays  of  ancient  rhyme, 
Since  the  day  when  rosy  Hylas  plunged  into  Sca- 

mander's  wave  ; 

Since  the  am'rous  Naiads  bore  him  where  no  human 
arm  could  save. 

On  the  waves  swift  Argo  rested  ;  scarce  a  ripple 

stirred  the  sea, 
While  across  the  Dardan  meadows  sighed  the  breezes 

soft  and  free  ; 
Then  the  sun,  in  golden  splendor,  sank  into  a  sea  of 

flame, 
Darkness  o'er  the  blue  hills  rested;  yet  no  fair  young 

Hylas  came. 

For  the  water  nymphs  had  loved  him,  when  they 

saw  his  beauty  rare, 
And  with  yielding  lips  caressing,  they  entwined  him 

with  their  hair, 
Till  they  bound  him,  still  entreating,  with  this  soft 

and  silken  chain, 
Till  they  drew  him  'neath  the  waters,  whence  he 

ne'er  should  come  again. 


THE  FORTNIGHT.  53 

Then  the  moon — a  crescent  jewel — edged  the  clouds 

with  silver  light, 
While  they  sped  like  shallops  sailing,  swift-winged 

messengers  of  Night. 
And  the  stream,  dark-hued  and  sombre,  sighed  in 

surges  on  the  shore  ; 
Gently  sighed  among  its  rushes,  "  Hylas  !  Hylas  !  " 

o'er  and  o'er. 

Yet  no  voice  replied  in  answer,  though  the  sighing 

louder  grew, 
Though  with  sorrow  bowed  the  flowers,  and  their 

tears  were  drops  of  dew  ; 
No  sweet  echo  breaks  the  silence,  though  the  heart 

may  hope  and  yearn, 
O'er  the  stream  a  realm  of  quiet — on  the  shore  the 

empty  urn. 

S.  G.  Tenncy. 


YE   PRETTYE   MAYDE. 

RONDO,    1799. 

YE  prettye  mayde,  wyth  raven  hayr 
Thatt  lyes  upon  her  brow  so  f ayr, 
Trypps  lyghtlye  o'er  ye  meadowes  gay 
And  syngs  a  quaynte  old  roundelay  : 
A  ballade  wyth  a  merrye  ayre. 


54  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

She  meetes  ye  stalwarte  squyre — beware  ! 
Wyth  those  darke  eyes  doth  she  ensnare 
Full  many  youthes  and  say  them  nay — ye  prettye 
mayde. 

She  doth  a  dayntye  kerchyeff  e  weare, 
O  would  I  myght  yts  honor  share 
And  ev'ry  breath  of  hers  obeye  ! 
Her  tryste  wyth  me  I  'd  ne'er  betraye, 
Fayne   would  I  wyn  her — debonnayr — ye  prettye 
mayde. 

S.  G.  Tenney. 

A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

F  I  were  a  knightly  lover, 
And  you  a  lady  fair, 
If  I  were,  say,  Lord  Roland, 
And  you  my  Lady  Clare, 

Then  would  I  dare  to  enter 
The  combat  fierce,  and  try 

To  win  from  you  that  favor 
For  which  all  lovers  vie. 

But,  alas,  I  'm  a  modern  wooer, 
And  you,  though  fair,  are  poor. 

So  I  think  I  '11  try  it  single, 
Or  a  richer  girl  procure. 

JB.  L.  Adams. 


THE  FORTNIGHT.  55 

RONDEAU— AH  LASSIE  FAIR! 

|  H  lassie  fair  !  thine  eyes  of  blue 

Betray  a  heart  both  warm  and  true — 
Yet  something  bids  me  stay,  beware, 

For  thou  art  false  as  well  as  fair, 

As  fickle  as  the  morning  dew. 

Yet,  pretty  maid,  I  would  I  knew 
The  shortest  way  to  win  and  woo, 
For  then  my  love  should  ne'er  despair, 
Ah  lassie  fair  ! 

Her  soft  cheeks  tinged  a  deeper  hue, 
A  charming  glance  at  me  she  threw, 
She  tossed  her  wealth  of  dark-brown  hair, 
With  such  a  gay  coquettish  air, 
"  Monsieur,  pardonnez  moi — adieu," 
Ah,  laissezfaire  / 

S.  G.  Ttnncy. 


A  QUIET  SMOKE. 

SAT  me  down  to  smoke  ;  one  breath  I  drew, 
Then  puffed  it  forth,  and  straight  around  me 

threw 

A  curling  cloud,  that  thinned  to  misty  blue, 
And  off  did  float. 


56  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

I  closed  my  eyes,  but  on  my  eyelids  prest 
The  god  of  slumber  sweet ;  and  I  confest 
His  power  o'er  my  frame,  and  sank  to  rest, 
From  cares  remote. 

Ere  long  I  waked  ;  and  terror  smote  my  soul  ; 
The   pipe  had  slipped,  the   "Turkish"  from  the 

bowl 

Thrown  out,  lay  smoldering,  and  had  burned  a  hole 
In  my  best  coat. 

T.  M.  Banks. 


SONG  :  JACK  FALSTAFF'S  SACK. 

RONDEAU. 
I. 

JACK  FALSTAFF'S  sack  was  rich  and  rare, 
As  many  merry  bards  declare  ; 
It  had  a  flavor  quite  divine, 
And  jolly  Jack  did  ne'er  decline 
To  drain  his  bumper's  gen'rous  share. 

ii. 

It  drove  away  foreboding  care 
And  banished  troubles — Jack  knew  where  ; 
This  rich  old  flood  of  Spanish  wine — 
Jack  Falstaff's  sack. 


THE  FORTNIGHT.  $? 

III. 

To  drink  like  Jack,  my  boy,  beware, 

But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there. 

Right  merrily  the  beakers  shine, 

Here  's  health  to  thee  !  here  's  wealth  to  thine  ! 

And  while  we  drink,  we  '11  troll  the  air — 

Jack  Falstaffs  sack. 

S.  G.   Tenney. 


ARBUTUS. 

'HOUGH  covered  long  by  lingering  snows, 
As  soon  as  e'er  the  winter  goes, 
You  peep  from  out  your  bright  green  clothes, 
Announcing  spring  is  here. 

Soon  from  your  hiding  you  '11  be  chased, 
And  then  in  dainty  box  encased 
You  '11  go  to  grace  my  lady's  waist, 
Proclaiming  her  my  dear. 

A  dainty  note  I  '11  then  await 
In  anxious  doubting  for  my  fate, 
And  wondering  if,  at  any  rate, 

Her  blessed  heart  you  're  near. 

E.  L.  Adams. 


58  WILLIAMS    VERSE. 

TO  THE  VENUS  DE  MILO, 

LIFELESS  clay  art  thou,  and  still, 
Yet  radiant  with  thoughts  that  fill 
My  little  realm.     Epitome 

Of  Grecian  art,  eternity 

Can  ne'er  erase  thy  form  divine 

From  shadows  of  forgotten  time. 

A  master  formed  thee,  lasting  type 

Of  his  true  soul,  a  being  rife 

With  purest  harmony,  from  stone  ; 

And,  by  his  carving,  did  enthrone 

Upon  thy  white  and  speechless  lip 

The  secret  of  his  workmanship, 

Ideal  of  true  womanhood, 

In  whom  is  blended  fair  and  good. 

Samuel  Abbott. 


SONG :  THE  VANISHED  DAYS. 

RONDEAU. 
I. 

'HE  vanished    days  !  how  faint  they  lie 
Like  soft  clouds  in  a  summer  sky  ; 
The  shadows  dark  which  they  enfold, 
The  pleasures  which  long  since  are  cold, 
Like  phantoms  of  the  past  flit  by. 


THE  FORTNIGHT.  59 


II. 

The  night  winds  through  the  branches  sigh, — 
What  does  their  moaning  weird  imply  ? 
Are  they  by  spirits  grimly  tolled, — 
The  vanished  days  ? 

in. 

What  though  my  life  doth  swiftly  fly 
And  Death's  black  stream  is  deep  and  nigh  ! 
Far  greater  joys  for  me  unfold 
Than  all  this  barren  world  can  hold. 
The  future  comes  ;  it  will  outvie 
The  vanished  days. 

S.  G.  Tenney. 


LIEDER  OHNE  WORTE. 

WORDLESS,   senseful   songs   so    strangely 

sweet, 

That  borne  upon  your  melody's  soft  wings, 
Laden  with  high  thoughts  of  still  higher  things, 
Persistent  at  my  heart's  barred  window  beat. 

But  when  I  open  to  you  and  do  call 

To  know  the  mystic  meaning  that  you  bear, 
Lo  !  you  are  vanished, — there  is  nothing  there 

Save  a  great  stillness  brooding  over  all. 


60  WILLIAMS   VERSE. 

Your  voice  is  silent  ;  but  in  moments  sweet, 
When  in  the  cloud-land  of  a  waking  dream 
I  lose  myself,  forever  still  you  seem 

At  the  barred  window  of  my  heart  to  beat. 

G.  L.  Richardson. 


IN  HOLLAND  BROWN. 

RONDEAU. 

N  holland  brown  she  stands  to  greet 
Me  as  I  come  adown  the  street ; 
The  sunlight  falling  on  her  hair 
Leaves  warm  caresses  gently  there — 
A  picture  with  true  grace  replete  ! 

The  roses  twining  round  her  feet 
Breathe  gentle  fragrance  rare  and  sweet ; 
She  sings  a  merry  rustic  air — 
In  holland  brown. 

O  years  that  fly  so  swift  and  fleet ! 
O  storms  that  'gainst  her  window  beat  ! 
Keep  her  from  harm  and  tears  and  care  ! 
That  future  hours  may  find  her  where 
In  days  of  June  we  used  to  meet, — 
In  holland  brown. 

S.  G.  Tcnney. 


THE  FORTNIGHT.  6 1 

HER  GLOVE. 

T  is  hers  !     O  torn  and  yellow  glove, 
Which  once  upon  my  pretty  love 

Was  fair  to  see, 

I  wonder  not  you  clung  so  close, 
And  could  not  from  her  fingers  loose, 

But  there  would  be  ; 
And  now  that  you  are  old  and  torn, 
And  are  no  longer  by  her  worn, 

So  sad  do  seem. 

Ah  me,  I  would  that  I  could  hold 
Her  hand  as  close  as  you,  of  old, 
Though,  like  you,  mean. 

And  yes,  I  would  that  I  had  known, 
Like  you,  her  breath  upon  me  blown, 

In  winter's  cold  ; 

Or  would  that  I  had  felt  the  touch 
Of  her  light  fingers,  showing  much 

Of  dainty  mould. 
And  now  that  you  aside  are  flung, 
Cast  off,  the  careless  crowd  among, 

O  ragged  glove, 

I  '11  call  you  mine,  and  you  shall  be 
A  treasure,  which  shall  speak  to  me 

Of  my  sweet  love. 

E.  y.  Thomas. 


62  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

"GOOD-NIGHT." 

WE  would  not  speak  :  words  are  a  bitter  thing. 
Heart  beats  to  heart  and  understands  its 

own. 

Shades,  gliding  from  the  silent  pines,  have  flown, 
And,  awed,  the  merry  cricket  dares  not  sing. 
We  cannot  speak,  we  may  not  meet  again. 
There  is  a  presence  here,  unseen  yet  strong, 
That  followed  me  amid  day's  surging  throng, 
And  now  a  hand  upon  my  arm  has  lain. 
Ah  Fate,  so  cold,  that  sneers  at  sobbing  Love, 
Thou  canst  not  check  one  kiss,  one  fond  caress  ! 
Oh,  cruel  end  to  dreaming  happiness, 
That  saw  fruition  in  the  stars  above  ! 
Dear  trustful  eyes,  where  tears  have  dimmed  the 

sight, 

These  lips  will  never  say  farewell ;   "  good-night." 

Samuel  Abbott. 


ON  RECEIVING  A  RUSKIN  CALENDAR. 

'HE  words  of  him  who  sees  with  clearer  sight 
Than  most  men  do  the  beauty  in  all  things, 
To  whom  the  swift  months  come  on  rapid 

wings, 

Bringing,  each  one,  some  new  and  fair  delight, 
Shall  tell  me  what,  with  blinded  eyes  and  dim, 


THE  FORTNIGHT.  ( 

I  cannot  see — and  yet  I  fain  would  know — 
Remind  me,  as  the  seasons  come  and  go, 
Of  the  great  world  that  is  revealed  to  him. 
And  like  some  conjurer  of  story  old, 
He  shall  but  touch  my  eyelids  with  his  wand, 
And  presto  !    I  am  in  a  fairy  land, 
Full  of  such  wonders  as  were  never  told 
In  Turkish  tales  of  good  Alraschid's  day. 
I  thank  you  for  it,  friend,  as  best  I  may. 

G.  L.  Richardson. 


Selections  from  £be  (Bulielmensian* 


IN  TRANSEPT  SEATS. 

/N  transept  seats,  sometimes  a  maid, 
By  rare  good  fortune,  has  essayed 
To  hear  the  long-drawn  sermon  out  ; 
The  Freshmen's  heads  are  "  right-about  " 
No  wonder  she  seems  half  afraid. 

The  glass  throws  in  its  sombre  shade  ; 
The  droning  preacher,  undismayed, 
Winds  on  without  a  glance,  no  doubt, 
In  transept  seats. 

My  heart  with  love  is  over-weighed 
Before  her  eyes'  fair  cannonade  ; 
For  she  hath  put  at  once  to  rout 
All  other  thoughts  by  that  sweet  pout 
A  heart  beats  mutual  serenade 
In  transept  seats. 

£.  £.  White. 
I  65 


66  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

WHY  READ? 


WATCH  the  dying  embers  glow  ; 

A  book  rests  on  my  knee — 
Then  falls  ;  my  thoughts  have  wandered  far 

Beyond  the  cruel  sea. 


Why  read  ?     No  novelists  portray 

A  face  as  fair  as  thine  ; 
Nor  has  a  poet  ever  sung 

A  love  as  warm  as  mine. 

'T  is  thus  I  write  to  her  to-night, — 

My  shrine  in  distant  Rome, — 
More  dear  to  me  than  to  the  saint 

Is  old  St.  Peter's  dome. 

LA    R^PONSE. 

I  sit  beneath  Italia's  sun, 

A  novel  lies  before  me, 
You  '11  be  surprised,  yet — pardon  please — 

Its  pages  do  not  bore  me. 

Why  read  ?     It  pleases  me  to  find 

How  weak  the  love  I  see 
In  all  the  noblest  heroines 

Compared  to  mine  for  thee. 

7.  S.  UnderhilL 


H 


THE   GULIELMENSIAN.  67 

THE   POINT  OF  VIEW. 

HE  never  heard  of  rabbit, 
He  never  tasted  pie, 
He  never  ate  a  sandwich, 

Or  smelled  of  "  extra  dry  ;  " 
He  never  went  to  meeting, 

Or  heard  the  matinee  ; 
Of  Ibsen  or  of  Kipling 

He  'd  not  a  word  to  say  ; 
He  shunned  the   "  airy  mazy," 
And  the  waltz's  dizzy  whirl  ; 
He  never  wore  a  collar 

When  he  went  to  see  his  girl  ; 
Nor  when  he  met  a  lady, 

Was  he  known  to  doff  his  hat  ; 
He  never  owned  a  handkerchief, 

Or  bought  a  new  cravat. 
Perhaps  you  think  our  hero 

Was  a   "  hoodoo/'   so  to  speak  ; 
But  you  're  very  much  mistaken, 
For  he  was  an  ancient  Greek. 

R.  L.  Hartt. 

HIS  ESSAY. 

E  bought  an  essay  weeks  ago, 

It  teemed  with  learned  phrase, 
'Twas  marked  "  V.  H."  and  seemed  not  of 
These  superficial  days. 


68  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

To-day  his  father  happened  in, 
He  thought  his  son  was  shirking, 

"  That  essay  is  full  proof,"  said  he, 
"  'T  is  evident  I  'm  working." 

The  old  man's  pulse  with  wonder  throbbed, 

The  tears  began  to  flow, 
"  I  wrote  that  essay,  boy,"  he  sobbed, 

"  Just  thirty  years  ago." 

/.  S.  Underhill. 


A  TALE  OF  PASSION. 

WITH  longing  eyes  I  sit  and  watch 
The  portal  through  which  Chloe  passed  ; 
With  heavy  heart  I  slowly  count 
The  minutes  since  I  saw  thee  last. 
Oh  cruel  fair,  to  take  delight 
In  vexing  a  love-stricken  wight. 

The  moments  fade  away  to  hours, 

And  still  I  linger  here  alone. 
The  taunting  echoes  mock  my  sighs ; 

To  empty  walls  I  make  my  moan. 
Ah,  Cupid,  draw  again  thy  bow, 
Dispatch  but  do  not  torture  so. 


THE  GULIELMENSIAN.  6$ 

But  hark  !  she  comes  !  I  hear  her  voice  ! 

Farewell  despair  !  now  dawns  the  day  ! 
With  nimble  feet  she  kicks  the  door, 

And  in  her  hands  she  bears  the  tray, 
Those  pies  !  That  hash  !  That  H2O 
I  ordered  three  long  hours  ago  ! 

N.  H.  Thompson. 

VESPERA. 

Q>  LOWLY  the  bell  is  pealing 
@^         The  hour  of  prayer  ; 
*>     Softly  the  notes  come  stealing 

Over  the  air  ; 

And  we  gather  in  silence  like  monks  of  old 
In  their  solemn  processions  when  vespers  tolled. 

Softly  the  light  is  blending 

With  the  gloom  ; 
O'er  us  a  hush  descending, 

Fills  the  room  ; 

And  we  feel  all  discordant  and  troubling  care 
Borne  away  on  the  wings  of  psalm  and  prayer. 

And  now  the  grand  old  chorus, 

Loud  and  clear, 
Sending  rapture  o'er  us, 
Bursts  on  the  ear, 

While  the  organ  is  swelling  the  anthem  strain — 
How  the  melody  tunes  our  cold  hearts  again  ! 


/O  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Slowly  the  organ  pealing 

Sinks  into  rest, 
Yet  still  comes  music  stealing 

Into  each  breast  ; 

And  the  long  line  of  figures  wind  slowly  away, 
Like  a  weird  throng  of  shades  in  the  evening's  gray. 

S.  T.  Livingston. 


TO  JULIA  ON  WHISTLING. 

JULIA,  maids  should  never  whistle. 
Why  ?     You  know  the  ancient  rhyme — 
Whistling  girls — ill  fate  is  certain, 
I  would  have  you  warned  in  time. 

Julia,  maids  have  never  whistled 

Though  sometimes  they  say  they  do, 

If  "  in  private  "  how  can  men  be 
Sure  their  pretty  words  are  true  ? 

If  they  could,  maids  dare  not  whistle — 
What  ? — Well  then,  let  's  ^^  you  try. 

My  .  .  .  lips  .  .  .  help  it — there  now,  Julia, 
Don't  you  see  the  reason  why  ? 

P.  W.  Blackmer. 


THE   GULIELMENSIAN.  /I 

ODE    TO    DR.    HOPKINS. 

OD  bless  the  dear  old  doctor!  "lips  once  tuned 
To  win  a  nation's  ear,  have  breathed  the 

prayer 

Echoed  in  reverence  from  a  thousand  hearts 
Of  Williams'  sons.     In  olden  times,  't  is  said, 
Each  cloistered  school  a  patron  saint  revered, 
Whose  spell  benign  infused  a  loftier  zeal 
In  recluse  student,  seeking  buried  lore 
From  yellow  pages.     Greater  than  such  saint, 
Thy  presence  here,  loved  Sage,  has  thrown  around 
Our  college  richer  blessing,  whose  sweet  spell 
Reaches  far  out  thro'  lives  of  noble  men  ; 
And  manly  souls  have  purer  manhood  found 
That  they  have  learned  of  thee.     O,  ever  rest 
O'er  Alma  Mater's  consecrated  halls 
The  blessing  of  thy  life,  that  when  to  her, 
Her  sons  shall  turn  their  thoughts,  thy  memory  too 
Entwined  with  hers  shall  rise,  and  men  shall  know 
And  better  love  her,  thro'  their  love  for  thee. 

G.  H.  Badger. 


Selections  from  Gbe  literary 


NIGHT. 

'HE   traveller   Night  is   gliding   through   the 

street  : 
No  word  he  speaks  and   noiseless  are  his 

feet ; 

His  breath  is  cold  ;  and  with  his  mantle  spread 
He  flies  like  some  grim  spectre  of  the  dead. 
I  strive  in  vain  to  find  a  well-known  face, 
But  all  are  muffled  ;  slow  steps  quicken  pace  ; 
And  now  fall  fast  the  flickering  flakes  that  fold 
The  earth  in  winter's  dread,  relentless  hold. 

Ah,  symbol  of  that  ghostly  winter  night 

That  comes  when  our  short  daylight  fades  from 

sight, 

And  we,  like  muffled  spectres,  haste  away 
Alone,  unknown,  in  single  mute  array, 
73 


74  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

From  heartless  winter  and  this  traveller  grim, 
Gliding  with  noiseless  feet  when  day  grows  dim, — 
Whose  shadowy  form,  on  that  glad  distant  shore 
Of  light  eternal,  we  shall  see  no  more. 

S.  T.  Livingston. 

A  WINTER  TWILIGHT. 

'HE  sun  has  set,  the  early  coming  night 

Deadens  the  landscape  to  a  chilly  gray, 
The  naked  trees  against  the  mountains  white 
Loom  black  and  gaunt.     The  slowly  dying  day 
Leaves  on  yon  mountain-top  a  warmer  glow, 
A  faint,  red  tinge  upon  its  cap  of  snow. 

Cloudless  and  cold  arches  the  winter  sky  ; 

Upon  the  rolling  fields  that  to  the  sight 
Stretch  far  along,  the  evening  shadows  lie 

Save  where,  amid  the  quickly  gathering  night, 
From  a  lone  farm-house  window  faintly  shines 
A  light  amid  a  grove  of  sombre  pines. 

Faster  the  shadows  fall  on  hill  and  dale  ; 

A  star,  and  then  another,  in  the  sky 
Gleams  out.     The  night-fog  in  its  clinging  veil 

Enwraps  the  earth.     The  flush  begins  to  die 
Upon  the  mountain.     Shrill  and  cold  and  drear 
The  chill  wind  whistles  by.     The  night  is  here. 

G.  L.  Richardson. 


THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY.  75 

THREE  KNOCKS. 

WHEN  Wisdom  knocks  without  the  gateway, 
Length  of  days,  renown  sincere 
For  her  gifts,  O  mind,  awaken, 
Haste  to  answer,  "  Here." 

When  Love,  the  archer-boy,  in  slyness 
Through  the  window  steals,  and  dear 

Wee  hands  tap  at  the  Heart's  barred  chamber, 
Thou  wilt  answer,  "  Here." 

When  Death  creeps  toward  the  Soul's  shut  doorway, 

Swifter,  bolder,  year  by  year, 
When  his  knuckles  smite  the  panel, 

Who  shall  answer,  "  Here  "  ? 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

^UGHT  not  the  summer  dear, 

With  brightness  gone  and  death  so  near, 
Look  back  and  smile 
One  calm,  sweet  while  ? 

The  hills  are  stilled, 

No  longer  thrilled 

With  blithesome  song  of  birds  along 
The  bosky  ways  they  used  to  throng. 


/6  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Dead  are  the  flowers, 
Gone  are  the  gentle  hours, 

The  summer  fair  lies  dying,  dying. 

Can  you  wonder  at  our  sighing,  sighing  ? 

0  friend,  O  foe, 

1  surely  know 

That  I  can  never  go,  nor  let  you  go, 
Except  the  one  look  back  and  leave  the  other  so. 

C.  H.  Perry. 

SEVEN  YEARS. 
(Parting.} 

WE  are  but  boys  ;  at  least  we  can  but  trust, 
The  misty  years  will  bring  us  once  again 
To  this  loved  spot,  where  oft  our  bodies  lain 
Upon  the  grassy  sward,  have  lightly  thrust 
Aside  the  flower, — like  us  a  child  of  dust, — 
Within  whose  petaled  cup  the  gentle  rain 
Had  left  a  tiny  drop  ;  and  daisied  chain 
Stretched  noddingly,  with  links  that  know  not  rust. 
Brother, — for  so  in  heart  God  wills  we  are, 
And  naught  on  earth  annuls  His  own  decree, — 
The  day  is  come  when  we  must  severed  be, 
I  biding  here,  thou  seeking  lands  afar. 
Brave  heart,  I  clasp  thee  to  my  yearning  breast, 
And  in  a  brother's  joy  find  dearest  rest. 


THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY.  77 

(Returned ?\ 

At  last,  across  the  winter's  snows  returned, 

He  waiteth  for  me, — yet  not  as  of  yore, 

With  footsteps  lightly  summoned  o'er  the  floor, 

That  seemed  as  though  his  youthful  nature  burned 

To  hold  converse  with  mine.    The  boy  has  learned 

What  we  have  yet  to  learn  ;  another  door 

Has  opened,  all  wondering  he  stands  before 

The  tenderest  of  brothers.     He  has  returned. 

White  roses  lie  above  his  silent  heart, — 

In  one  a  drop  doth  tremble  as  a  voiceless  tear  ; 

Deep  memories,  the  past  has  cherished  dear, 

Are  lingering  in  them,  with  their  being  part. 

Ah  me,  how  years  thwart  every  cherished  plan, 

In  God's  vast  epilogue  naught  save  a  span  ! 

Samuel  Abbott. 

ON  MILLET'S  ANGELUS. 

BIM,  distant,  tinkling  chimes, 
That  summoned  men  in  olden  times 
To  pray  the  Virgin  grace  impart ; 
Ye  solemn  voices  of  a  day  gone  by, 
Whose  mystic  strains  of  melody 
Alike  touched  peer  and  peasant's  heart ; 
Your  music  falters  in  the  fleeting  years, 
Yet  still  comes  faintly  to  our  ears, 
Saved  by  a  master's  cunning  art. 

£.  Z.  Adams. 


78  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

«DER  TOD  ALS  FREUND." 

'HE  aged  sacrist  at  his  casement 

Gazes,  weary,  toward  the  west ; 
Like  the  light  his  life  is  fading, 
Death  is  calling  him  to  rest. 

Yes,  his  day  and  work  are  ended, 
And  the  sinking  sun's  mild  light 

O'er  the  slowly  drooping  eyelids 
Throws  a  peaceful,  last  good-night. 

Grim  death,  masked  in  cowl  and  mantle, 

Kindly  rings  the  curfew  bell, 
And  the  lonely,  dying  bell-man 

Bids  the  world  a  long  farewell. 

So  through  the  sunset  gate  celestial, 

With  the  knell  of  closing  day 
Pealing  heaven's  glad,  welcome  music, 

The  old  man's  soul  is  borne  away, 

S.  T.  Livingston. 


THE  CAPTIVE'S  DEATH. 

WRAPPED  in    the  slumb'rous  folds  of  silent 
night, 

The  city  lies  'neath  glitt'ring  worlds  of  light ; 
Thro'  moonlit  streets  the  winds  their  vigils  keep, 
While  to  the  Tiber's  waves  they  whisper — sleep. 


THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY.  79 

Long  since  belated  footsteps  ceased  to  prate 

With  chatt'ring  echoes  to  the  wall  and  gate. 

The  busy,  thronging  marts  of  day  are  hushed, 

Deserted,  save  by  one  now  lying  crushed 

Beneath  the  weight  of  sorrow,  chains,  despair, 

A  weary,  unsold  captive  ;  none  to  share 

His  bitter  shame  and  agony  are  near, 

To  soothe,  console,  and  check  the  coursing  tear. 

His  silvered  locks  and  flowing  beard  are  tossed 

About  the  drooping  head  in  rev'rie  lost. 

At  last  he  moves,  and  gazes  to  the  skies  ; 

A  melting  anguish  fills  the  aged  eyes. 

But  now  it  changes  into  joy,  he  smiles 

As  if  some  heav'nly  view  his  sight  beguiles. 

He  feels  no  more  the  heavy  iron  band 

That  clings  with  cruel  grasp  ;  he  sees  a  land, 

Far  distant,  and  recalls  a  time  long  past — 

The  days  of  youth,  the  scenes  in  childhood  cast, 

When  full  of  glee  he  plucked,  in  meadows  sweet, 

The  flowers  and  threw  them  in  the  brook,  a  fleet 

That  glided  to  the  murmur  of  the  tide. 

Or  when,  far  up  the  sunny  mountain  side, 

He  led  the  flocks,  and  lingered  there  till  day, 

His  crimson  portals  closing,  passed  away. 

Or  when  in  armor  clad,  on  foaming  steed, 

He  bade  farewell  to  mother,  bride,  and  mead. 

The   wrinkled   brow  grows  sad,  his   cheeks   have 
paled  ; 


80  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

He  shudders  ;  tries  to  rise,  but  strength  has  failed. 
A  sudden  thought  transforms  his  face  to  peace  ; 
Faint  come  the  words,  "  At  last,  O  God,  release  !  " 
In  gratitude  his  shackled  arms  he  lifts, 
A  passing  cloud,  now  by  the  breaking  rifts, 
Behold  !  the  struggle  's  o'er,  the  soul  has  fled  ; 
Unknown,  unwept,  the  lonely  captive  's  dead. 

H.  M.  Allen. 


SONG, 

|  CROSS  the  hills  the  night  wind  comes, 

The  sunset  glories  die, 
The  evening  star,  a  golden  flame, 
Drops  down  the  western  sky, 
And  thou,  my  love,  and  I,  my  love, 

In  the  still  twilight  meet, 
And  through  the  dusky,  winding  ways 
Wander  with  ling'ring  feet. 

There  is  a  stillness  in  the  air, 

A  calm  of  restful  peace, 
That  brings  relief  from  passing  care, 

From  troubled  thought  release. 
The  dew-damp  flowers,  as  we  pass, 

Breathe  fragrance  at  our  feet, 
And  breezes  in  the  nodding  grass 

Whisper,  "  Ah  !  love  is  sweet !  " 


THE  LITERAR  Y  MON  THL  Y.  8 1 

Gladness  is  in  my  heart  to-night, 

A  joy  well-nigh  divine, 
To  think  the  thought  too  good  for  truth, 

That  thou,  my  love,  art  mine. 
And  thou,  my  love,  and  I,  my  love, 

Heed  not  the  coming  night, 
For  to  our  eyes  the  vistas  dim 

Are  filled  with  visions  bright. 

So  let  me  sing  a  song  of  songs, 

A  song  of  love  to  thee, 
A  song  of  what  I  hope  our  love 

To  us,  my  love,  shall  be. 
That  it  may  bind  us  each  to  each, 

Throughout  the  coming  days, 
And  side  by  side  we  still  may  go 

Through  all  life's  winding  ways. 

G.  L.  Richardson. 


IM  ABEND. 

a  lovely  grove's  cool  shadows, 
*"*     Where  a  dainty  rug  is  spread, 

Made  of  softest  moss  and  flowers, 
Fit  for  none  but  fairies'  tread  ; 
Where  the  mellow  rays  of  moonlight 

Through  the  leafy  lattice  peep, 
Tracing  graceful,  dreamy  figures 
Where  the  shadows  lie  asleep — 

* 


82  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Comes  a  magic  invitation, 

Gently  borne  to  mortal  sense 
By  soft  sighing  forest  zephyrs 

Fraught  with  sylvan  redolence. 
"  Come,"  each  sleepy  flower  murmurs 

Through  the  drowsy  woodland  hum, 
And  the  wakeful  crickets  chirping 

Echo  back  in  chorus,  "Come." 

H.  W.  Edson. 

"  I  DARE  NOT." 

DREAMED,    and    thought    one   stood    with 

bended  head, 

And  stretching  forth  his  hand  above  my  bed, 
Lovingly  spoke  in  tender  voice  and  said  : 
"  Go,  I  will  show  thee  all  that  thou  shalt  be, 
And  all  that  thou  shalt  do,  and  unto  thee 
What  fate  shall  fall  through  all  futurity  ; 
What  friends  shall  seek  thee  and  what  valiant  foes 
Thou  shalt  encounter, — yea,  what  joys  and  woes, 
What  strife,  what  gain,  what  labor,  what  repose — 
These  I  will  show  thee.     Now  do  thou  arise." 
Thus  ended  he  his  words  ;  in  wild  surmise 
I  feared  and  said  :  "  I  dare  not  lift  my  eyes  "  ; 
But  then  he  answered  :  "  It  is  better  so, 
Else  would  thy  Lord  have  given  thee  power  to  know, 
Or  would  Himself  have  told  thee,  long  ago." 

R.  L.  Hartt. 


THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY.  83 

TINTS. 

a  rose  to  a  lily,  that  pined  with  love, 
"  Come,  let  us  wedded  be  !  " 
Ah,  sweetheart  mine,  what  priest  and  shrine 
Shall  we  seek,  if  I  marry  thee  ? " 

"  Why  the  loveliest  shrine  in  the  world  so  wide," 
Said  the  rose,  "our  shrine  shall  be." 

Ah,  sweetheart  mine,  thy  face  was  that  shrine, 
The  fairest  on  land  or  sea  ! 

Arthur  Oliver. 

A  SUMMER  SONG. 

(Suggested  by  the  German  of  Opitz.J 

6OME,  friend  scholar,  cease  your  bending 
Over  books  with  eager  gaze  ; 
Time  it  were  such  work  had  ending, — 
Well  enough  for  rainy  days. 
Out  with  me  where  sunlight  pours, 
Life  to-day  is  out-of-doors  ! 

Busy  ?     Pshaw  !     What  good  can  reach  you 
Frowning  o'er  that  dog-eared  page  ? 

Yonder  rushing  brook  can  teach  you 
More  than  half  your  Classic  Age. 

Banish  Greeks  and  siren  shores, 

Let  your  thoughts  run  out-of-doors  1 


84  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Rest  we  here  where  none  can  spy  us, 
Deep  in  rippling  fields  of  grass  ; 

Scented  winds  blow  softly  by  us, 
Lazy  clouds  above  us  pass  ; 

Higher  yet  my  fancy  soars — 
All  my  soul  is  out-of-doors  ! 

T.  M.  Banks. 

SPRING  HOLIDAY. 

(Translated  from  the  German  of  Uhland.) 

OLDEN,  fragrant,  springtime  day, 

J°y  of  sense  and  spirit ! 
If  my  lips  e'er  tuned  a  lay, 
Sure  to-day  you  'd  hear  it. 

Why,  ah  why,  on  days  like  this, 

Think  of  work  or  playing  ? 
Springtime  is  a  time  of  bliss, 

Made  for  rest  or  praying. 

H.  W.  Edson. 

THE  VIKING. 

C>KALL  to  the  Viking  !     Skall  ! 
@^     Following  the  white  swan's  path, 

*        Sailing  the  witch-whale's  bath, 
Mock  we  the  coward,  Death, 
Nor  hear  his  call. 


THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY.  85 

Shields  gleam  along  our  prow, 
Dented  by  many  a  blow, 
Swift  gleam  our  swords  and  bright, 
Sharp  is  our  axes'  bite, 
Death  dare  not  come,  nor  flight 
To  Viking's  hall. 

Skall  to  the  Viking  !     Skall ! 
Following  the  white  swan's  path, 
Sailing  the  witch-whale's  bath, 
In  naught  but  hero's  death 
Shall  Vikings  fall. 

y.  R.  Tillinghast,  Jr. 

TWILIGHT. 

r>HADOWS  slowly  stealing 
@j         O'er  the  dusky  waters  cool ; 
V       Corydon  is  kneeling 

By  the  idle,  listless  pool. 
Far  beneath  its  placid  surface 

Shines  the  sand-bar's  yellow  gleam, 
Nothing  in  the  mirrored  image 

Mars  the  beauty  of  the  dream. 

Breezes  softly  stirring, 

In  the  willows  come  and  go, 
The  waters  gently  furring 

With  a  foam  as  white  as  snow. 


86  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Through  the  spray  is  seen  no  gleaming ; 

Drifting  clouds  obscure  the  light  ; 
Dimmer  grow  the  tiny  ripples 

At  the  coming  of  the  night. 

P.  S.  Allen. 

SPELLING  DOWN. 

N  line  of  battle  the  spelling  class  stands, 
With  solemn  faces  and  folded  hands — 
Waiting  the  word  that  shall  make  or  mar 
The  cherished  report  of  the  anxious  star. 

O  terrible  word  !     O  sweet  little  lass  ! 

How  she  's  struggled  and  toiled  to  be  head  of  the 

class  ! 

Now  she  falters  with  tears  in  those  eyes  of  brown, 
And,  with  many  a  burning  blush,  goes  down. 

And  the  laddie  who  stood  at  her  side  in  the  line — 
Just  suppose  his  position  were  yours,  or  mine  ! — 
He  can  spell  the  word,  but  he  's  not  even  tried. 
He  would  rather  go  down,  just  to  sit  at  her  side. 

Sweet  school-day  love  !     How  long  can  it  last  ? 
Must  it  change  and  fade  when  school-days    are 

past  ? 

Now  the  lad  calls  the  lassie  his  promised  bride, 
Would  he  share  a  disgrace,  just  to  sit  at  her  side  ? 

R.  L.  Hartt. 


THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY.  8/ 

SERENADE. 

BENEATH  thy  lattice,  ivy-grown, 
I  've  come  again,  sweetheart  ; 
I  could  not  bear  to  be  alone 
Without  thyself,  sweetheart. 

The  waning  moon  and  stars  now  reign 

Above  our  heads,  sweetheart  ; 
But  love  like  mine  can  never  wane, 

In  life  or  death,  sweetheart. 

See,  here  's  the  rose  to-night  you  gave, 

I  Ve  treasured  it,  sweetheart  ; 
To  me  it  is  the  sweetest,  save 

Thyself,  my  Rose,  sweetheart. 

A.  K.  Willy  oung. 

BUCCANEER  DRINKING  SONG. 


[^E-ECHO  now,  you  solemn  dunes, 
\\     The  lover  sighing  doleful  tunes, 

The  withered  hag  who  sits  and  croons, 
The  merchant  mourning  lost  doubloons. 
Vita  misera  ! 

Leave  to  priests  their  beads  and  masses, 
Seize  the  bright  to-day  that  passes. 
Here  's  a  health  to  wives  and  lasses, 
Come,  my  bullies,  clink  your  glasses. 
Vita  beata  ! 


88  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Sing  the  maiden's  eye  that  flashes 
'Neath  the  shadow  of  its  lashes  ; 
Drink  the  wine,  you  old  moustaches, 
Man  is  made  of  dust  and  ashes. 
Vita  misera! 

P.  S.  Allen. 


FIRESIDE  DREAMS. 

I  BOUT  the  room  with  silent  tread 

The  shadows  come  and  go, 
And  Spanish  castles  rise  and  fade 
In  the  dying  embers'  glow. 

Visions  of  fame  and  faces  fair 

Come  and  are  gone  again, 
As  Past  and  Future  gently  blend 

In  the  firelight's  peaceful  reign. 

y.  R.  Tillinghast,  Jr. 

SPRING  FAITH. 

(Translated  from  the  German  of  Uhland.) 

*HE  tender  zephyrs  lightly  play ; 

They  sigh  and  hover  night  and  day, 
And  everywhere  they  're  ranging. 
'Mid  fragrance  sweet  and  music  rare 
My  pining  heart,  forget  thy  care  ! 
For  soon  will  all,  yes  all,  be  changing. 


THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY.  89 

The  earth  grows  fairer  day  by  day  ; 
Could  aught  be  fairer  ?    None  can  say. 

But  soon  will  all,  yes  all,  be  changing. 
The  farthest,  deepest  valleys  bloom, 
My  pining  heart,  forget  thy  gloom  ! 

For  soon  will  all,  yes  all,  be  changing. 

H.  W.  Edson. 


SUNRISE. 

WANDERING   wight   from    the    night-wrack 
cold, 

Shame  on  thy  tattered  gray  ! 
Cover  thy  rags  with  a  robe  of  gold 

Meet  for  the  blaze  of  day. 
The  sun  peers  over  the  mountain  old, 
And  clouds  must  be  up  and  away ! 

Shadows  born  of  the  brooding  night, 

Hence  with  your  glowing  train. 
Doubts  and  terrors  that  cloud  my  sight, 

Off  to  the  dark  amain. 
Hope  is  high,  and  my  heart  is  light, 

For  day  is  awake  again  ! 

T.  M.  Banks. 


WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

REVEALING. 

UR  lives  are  diamonds  digged  from  out  the 

clay, 

Whose  brilliance,  crusted  by   the   clinging 
earth, 

May  lie  forever  hid. 

But  rendered  up, 

And  in  the  immortal  Lapidary's  hand 
Held  to  the  wheel  of  this  unresting  world, 
They  show  a  thousand  faces  to  the  light, 
And  mirror  back  its  beams  a  thousand  ways, 
Charming  the  eye  with  iridescent  flame. 

T.  M.  Banks. 

LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

["TvHILOSOPHERS  have  struggled  sore 
I          Since  time  began — perhaps  before — 
In  their  old-fashioned,  rusty  way, 

That  wearies  men  of  humbler  clay, 
To  find  where  life's  true  blessing  lay. 

The  poets  scarce  concealed  their  mirth 
At  such  display  of  conscious  worth. 
"  To  think,"  they  cried  in  many  an  ode, 
"  Of  moulding  prudish,  thread-bare  code 
To  teach  men  virtue — a  la  mode  !  " 


THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY.  9! 

With  the  buried  mass  of  ages 
Lie  the  poets,  lie  the  sages — 
Forgot  their  maxims  and  their  morals, 
Passed  away  their  dust,  their  laurels 
Still  the  food  for  endless  quarrels. 

Do  we  find  the  puzzling  question  ? 
May  I  offer  a  suggestion  ? 
Life's  true  blessing  hidden  lies 
In  no  stern  or  solemn  guise, 
But — a  glance  from  Dora's  eyes. 

P.  S.  Allen. 

.    SERENADE. 

^^OFTLY  the  breath  of  a  whispering  breeze 
@^  Sighs  in  the  boughs  of  the  shadowy  trees  ; 
^*      While  the  bright  hosts  of  the  summer-night  sky, 
Gladden  the  world  with  a  gleam  from  on  high. 

See,  where  a  light  on  yon  low  eastern  hill 
Grows  'mid  the  glory  that  heralds  it  still  ; 
Now  like  a  golden  dome,  fair  as  a  dream, 
Till  the  great  moon  rolls  in  splendor  supreme. 

Open  thy  lattice,  love  !  Look  on  the  night  ! 
Clearer  thine  eye  than  the  heavens  so  bright, 
Softer  thy  voice  than  the  summer  wind's  sigh, 
Fairer  thou  art  than  the  Queen  of  the  Sky  ! 

T.  M.  Banks. 


92  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

THE  HUNTER  AND  THE  MAID. 

'HE  hunter  sang  the  wildwood  through, 

Heigho,*the  hunter's  song  ! 
And  on  his  horn  a  blast  he  blew, 

Heigho,  full  loud  and  long  ! 
His  maid  was  lonely  in  her  bower  ; 

Heigho,  the  bonny  maid  ! 
Her  love  came  not  for  many  an  hour  ; 
Heigho,  how  long  he  stayed  ! 

At  last  the  truant  fared  in  sight  ; 

Heigho,  how  glad  was  she  ! 
Their  lovers'  vows  anew  they  plight, 

Heigho,  in  merry  glee  ! 
The  hunter  and  the  maid  are  wed  ; 

Heigho,  the  wedding  day  ! 
The  shadows  from  her  life  have  fled  ; 

Heigho,  thus  ends  my  lay  ! 

E.  L.  CrandalL 


TRIOLET. 

I  have  looked  upon  your  face, 
I  live  in  love  and  shall  forever, 
All  others  now  have  lost  their  grace 
Since  I  have  looked  upon  your  face. 
And  shall  another  e'er  replace 


THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY.  93 

Your  image  in  my  heart  !  Oh  never, 
Since  I  have  looked  upon  your  face, 
I  live  in  love  and  shall  forever. 

E.  R.  White. 

HOPE'S  FAREWELL. 

IS  now  all  earth  is  robed  in  white, 
The  land  a  cloudy  visage  wears, 
The  birds  to  warmer  climes  have  flown, 

The  trees  lie  buried  in  deep  sleep. 

When  mortal  man  must  wary  be, 

Lest  mother  earth,  invested  thus, 

Shall  throw  upon  her  noble  sons 

A  cloak  of  melancholy  gray, 

With  brooch  of  deep  despondency. 

And  life,  its  brighter  side  eclipsed, 

While  the  sun's  great  light  is  hidden, 

Seems  tangled  in  a  maze  of  wrongs  ; 

And  too,  with  earth's  retreating  smile, 

All  sense  of  joy  has  disappeared  ; 

And  pale  despair,  with  wrinkled  brow, 

Frowns  dark  upon  man's  efforts  vain. 

Then  Hope  comes  in  all  radiant, 

And  making  fast  with  chains  of  Love, 

The  victim  of  her  sister  dread, 

Anchors  him  fast  in  holding  ground, 

And,  e'er  departing,  tells  to  him 

The  secret  of  her  blessed  joys. 

L.  P.  Sladc. 


94  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

A  VISION. 

'HROUGH  all  the  way  of  shadows, 

Through  all  the  land  of  dreams, 
That  dim  and  misty  region 
Where  never  sunlight  gleams, 
There  walks  a  pleasant  vision, 

With  tender,  happy  eyes, 
And  in  her  face  there  shineth 
A  light  that  never  dies. 

Through  all  the  way  of  shadows, — 

My  way  of  hope  and  plan, — 
The  land  of  dreams,  uncertain 

Since  ever  life  began  ; 
Through  all  the  darkened  vista, 

Where  bright  spots  are  but  few, 
There  shines  one  ray  of  glory, 

A  faithful  love  and  true. 

0  Fates,  who  through  the  ages 
Spin  out  the  threads  of  life, 

The  golden  gossamers  of  joy, 
The  tangled  skeins  of  strife, 

1  know  not  what  awaits  me, 

But,  be  it  good  or  ill, 
Grant  that  my  Love  still  love  me, 
And — send  what  else  you  will. 

G.  L.  Richardson. 


THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY.  95 

SONNET. 

(On  a  picture  in  the  April,  '<&?,  Lippincott.) 

FAIR,    sweet    face,    O    shadowy,    pictured 

dream, 

O  lovely  vision  from  the  lovely  South, 
Glad  am  I  only  o'er  this  page  to  dream. 

Ah  !  happy  he  who  from  that  perfect  mouth 
Shall  know  warm  kisses — in  those  tender  eyes, 

Under  the  drooping  lashes,  long  and  fine, 
The  gleam  of  that  glad  light  that  never  dies 

Shall    catch — O    sweetness    sweeter    far    than 

wine — 
The  honeyed  wine  of  thine  own  sunny  land, — 

Only  to  see  the  beauty  of  thy  face, 
Only  to  feel  the  cool  touch  of  thy  hand, 

Only  to  glimpse  the  glory  of  thy  grace  ; 
O  pictured  maiden,  lowly  at  thy  feet 
We  bow,  far-off,  and  whisper,  Love  is  sweet. 

G.  L.  Richardson. 


ARBUTUS. 

N  wooded  mountain  slope,  beside 

Some  fallen  tree  or  jutting  stone  • 
Whose  hard  bare  face  the  moss  would  hide, 
And  give  a  softness  not  its  own — 


$6  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Where,  save  the  road  that  winds  below, 
No  sign  of  man  is  seen  around — 

Where  murm'ring  stream  in  ceaseless  flow 
Breaks  silence  with  the  only  sound — 

In  such  a  quiet  favored  place 

The  arbutus  has  found  retreat, 
And  here  uplifts  its  modest  face, 

Here  breathes  abroad  its  perfumes  sweet. 
Pink  dainty  petals  made  more  fair 
By  dead  brown  leaves  that  strew  the  ground, 
Half  hiding  in  their  tender  care 

The  simple  blossom  they  surround  : 
A  gentle  messenger  of  spring 

With  graceful  loveliness  replete, 
As  fair  a  bloom  as  earth  can  bring, — 

An  emblem  of  the  pure  and  sweet. 

Howard  Kennedy ',  J?r. 

SERVICE. 

thou  be   pure   and   high    and    know  thy 
worth, 

But  yet  beware,  lest  thine  o'erweening  pride 
Or  self-esteem  destroy  thy  usefulness. 

Look  off  to  yonder  snow-clad  mountain  tall, 
Whose  robe  of  purest  white  is  all  agleam 


THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY.  97 

Under  the  noon-day  sun.     Though  men  may  say, 
"  How  beautiful,  sublime  !  "  to  me  it  seems — 
Wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  exclusiveness 
That  chills  the  very  air — to  hold  its  head 
In  coldest  unconcern  above  the  earth, 
Superior  to  its  comfort  or  its  claims. 

But  turn  thine  eye  to  where  the  rolling  sun 
Sheds  floods  of  golden  radiance  everywhere  ; 
Think  how  its  beams,  that  grace  the  mountain's 

crest, 

Will  cheer  a  corner  in  the  peasant's  cot, 
Will  chase  the  gloom  from  many  a  darkened  mind 
With  their  bright  healing  touch  of  kindliness. 

See  thou  be  pure,  but  humble  and  sincere  ; 
So,  scorning  not  the  touch  of  lower  things, 
While  all  secure  from  taint  by  conscious  might, 
May  this  thy  purity  be  minister 
Unto  the  sin  and  sorrow  of  the  world. 

T.  M.  S&nks. 


NOT  FOR  ME. 

BOWN  to  the  mountains  of  the  West 
The  golden  moon  is  slipping  slow, 
Spreading  a  silvery,  silken  sheen 
O'er  the  gray  old  clouds  that  sleep  below. 


98  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Away  in  the  East,  the  ruddy  glow, — 
Amorous,  full, — of  the  planet  Mars 

Drives  to  a  distance  and  half  obscures 
The  cold,  pale,  trembling,  virgin  stars. 

Afar  to  the  Southward,  huge  and  black, 
Wrapped  in  a  mystic,  dreamsome  haze, 

The  cloak-clad  sentries  of  slumber-land, 
Their  rugged  tops  the  mountains  raise. 

Under  the  hill  stands  the  gray  clock-tower, 
Tangling  the  moon  in  its  belfry  black, 

While  below  it  the  ivied  walls 

Catch  the  breezes  and  hold  them  back. 

Over  the  pathway,  stately  elms 

Bend  to  whisper  and  croon  and  coo, 

Till  all  their  wet  and  kissing  leaves 
Runs  a  passionate  shiver  through. 

The  birds  in  the  branches  wake  anon, 
Twitter  a  moment  and  fall  asleep, 

While,  down  by  the  river,  the  whip-poor-wills 
Plaintively  tuneful  vigils  keep. 

There  seems  a  love-song  in  the  air, 

The  moon  smiles  softly — as  at  her  sweet, 

A  weight  of  tenderness  seems  to  press 
Even  the  glow-worms  at  my  feet. 


THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY.  '  99 

But,  lost  my  darling,  nights  like  this 
Bring  to  me  only  increase  of  pain — 

Thou  art  another's — life  is  death — 
dullness  and  gloom  alone  remain. 

E.  L.  Crandall. 


ROUGHENED  SEAS. 

bIGHTLY,  on  his  ocean  pillow, 
Slept  the  sea-gull,  floating  free  ; 
On  the  sands  there  rolled  no  billow, 
When  at  dawn  we  put  to  sea. 

Now,  his  warning  weirdly  shrieking, 
Scarce  the  sea-gull  breasts  the  gale ; 

Rudder,  mast,  and  prow  are  creaking  ; 
Drips  the  foam  from  spar  and  sail. 

Up  the  crest  we  dash,  and  totter, 
Down  the  trough  we  headlong  leap  : 

Ho  !  though  roars  the  rolling  water, 
Straight  to  sea  our  course  we  keep  ! 

Dim  yon  breakers,  shoreward  flashing ; 

Dim  yon  low,  green  islands  grow  ; 
Fast  and  free  and  far  we're  dashing, 

Lofty  ships  beside  us  go. 


100  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Yearn  we  now  for  morning's  quiet, — 
Seas  of  glass,  with  crimson  wave  ? 

No,  we  hail  the  billows'  riot, 

Gladdest  when  they  maddest  rave  ! 

So,  on  life's  wide,  mystic  ocean, 

Launched  we,  in  the  blush  of  morn ; 

Danced  our  bark,  with  gentlest  motion 
Out,  o'er  gleaming  waters  borne. 

Loud,  ere  long,  swept  storm  winds  roaring  ; 

But  our  hearts  swelled  bold  and  high  ; 
Nor,  'mid  crash  of  waters  warring, 

Wished  we  morning's  tranquil  sky. 

Soon  shall  fall  the  twilight  tender, 

Softly  fall,  o'er  life  and  sea  ; 
Then,  in  calm  and  crimson  splendor, 

Tranquil  shall  our  haven  be. 

Arthur  Oliver. 


THE  GOOD  OLD  ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN. 

0GOOD  old  English  gentleman, 
With  acres  broad  and  rent-roll  long, 
Who  hunts  the  fox, 
Nor  heeds  rough  rocks, 
And  loves  his  wine  and  a  hearty  song. 


THE  LITERARY  AfOA'fHLY:  ioi" 

And  when  the  day's  rough  sport  is  o'er, 
He  loves  to  dine  in  his  oaken  hall, 

And  hold  wassail 

With  English  ale, 
In  the  midst  of  his  friends  and  kinsmen  all. 

He  fought  in  Spain  with  the  Iron  Duke, 
And  under  India's  scorching  sun, 

And  he  loves  to  expound 

As  the  bottle  goes  round, 

How  the  battles  were  fought  and  the  fields  were 
won. 

His  face  well  seasoned  with  sun  and  storm, 
And  dyed  with  his  excellent  claret  and  port, 

With  his  scarlet  coat, 

And  the  county  vote, 
He  is  loved  by  all  in  field  and  court. 

H.  W.  Banks,  Jr. 


MOON  FANCIES. 

SOMNOLENCE  creeps  o'er  the  silent  sands, 
That  stills  the  quiver  in  the  whisp'ring  reeds  ; 
The  mumbling  sea  is  counting  of  his  beads, 
Droning  a  prayer  to  the  responsive  lands. 
A  dream  comes  floating  from  the  feathery  foam, 
Veiled  in  a  fleece  that  seems  itself  a  dream. 


WILLIAMS  VERSE. 


Along  the  white-capped  crests,  a  wand'ring  beam 
Of  laughing,  elfin  light  dares  hither  roam, 
Glinting  some  shell  late  stranded  by  the  gale, 
E'en  peering  through  the  gateway  of  my  soul, 
Where,  brother  tempests,  love  and  wonder  roll,  — 
And  bathes  the  portal  with  refulgence  pale. 
Sweet  symphony,  though  speechless  yet  so  strong, 
Thy  harmony  thrills  all  my  thought  with  song. 

Samuel  Abbott. 

A  VALENTINE. 

'M  penning  you  a  greeting 

This  sweet  confession-time, 
With  Cupid  gently  beating 

The  music  of  its  rhyme. 
Pray  list  to  my  entreating, 

Pray,  read  this  pleading  line, 
For  I  in  song  so  deeply  long 
To  be  your  Valentine. 

My  page  will  soon  be  bearing 

This  message  Love  has  framed, 
And  eager  hopes  preparing 

To  share  what  it  has  claimed  ; 
Let,  dear,  your  heart  be  daring, 

Give  Cupid  but  a  sign 
That  he  may  say  for  this  one  day 

I  am  your  Valentine. 


THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY.  1 03 

My  page  will  whisper  sweeter 

Confessions  than  I  write  ; 
His  cunning  wings  are  fleeter 

Than  flash  of  morning  light. 
Forth,  Cupid,  then  and  greet  her, 

Breathe  magic  words  of  thine, 
And  backward  fly  and  say  that  I 

May  be  her  Valentine. 

S.  T.  Livingston. 


CHRISTMAS-TIDE, 

|  S  in  some  old  cathedral's  chill  and  gloom 

(Some  vast  memorial  of  the  long  ago), 
Where  lengthening  isles  of  shadowy  columns 

loom, 

And  arching  stone  looks  down  on  stone  below, 
Through  one  rich  stained  window  comes  a  ray 

Of  golden  light  athwart  the  carven  stone, 
And  gives  to  what  it  touches,  cold  and  gray 

Before,  a  warmth  and  brightness  once  unknown  ; 

So  in  the  winter's  darkest  days  and  drear, 

There  comes  the  golden  ray  of  Christmas-tide, 
The   light   and   warmth    and    glow    of   Christmas 
cheer, 


104 


WILLIAMS  VERSE. 


And  failing  hearts  that  battle,  sorely  tried, 
Grow  strong  again.     We  greet  thee,  happy  Day  ! 

O  golden  Day  of  "  peace,  good-will  to  men  !  " 
Brighten  the  darkness  of  our  lonely  way, 

With  light  that  shines,  and  fadeth  not  again. 

G.  L.  Richardson. 


Selections  from  £be  ©uarterty* 


MEMORY. 

IS  beauteous  night  ;  the  stars  look  brightly 

down 

Upon  the  earth,  decked  in  her  robe  of  snow, 
No  light  gleams  at  the  window  save  my  own, 
Which  gives  its  cheer  to  midnight  and  to  me. 
And  now  with  noiseless  step  sweet  Memory  comes, 
And  leads  me  gently  through  her  twilight  realms. 
What  poet's  tuneful  lyre  has  ever  sung, 
Or  delicatest  pencil  e'er  portrayed- 
The  enchanted  shadowy  land  where  Memory  dwells? 
It  has  its  valleys,  cheerless,  lone,  and  drear, 
Dark-shaded  by  the  mournful  cypress  tree, 
And  yet  its  sunlit  mountain-tops  are  bathed 
In  heaven's  own  blue.     Upon  its  craggy  cliffs, 
Robed  in  the  dreamy  light  of  distant  years, 
Are  clustered  joys  serene  of  other  days  ; 
Upon  its  gently  sloping  hillsides  bend 
The  weeping-willows  o'er  the  sacred  dust 
105 


106  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Of  dear  departed  ones  ;  yet  in  that  land, 
Where'er  our  footsteps  fall  upon  the  shore, 
They  that  were  sleeping  rise  from  out  the  dust 
Of  death's  long,  silent  years,  and  round  us  stand, 
As  erst  they  did  before  the  prison  tomb 
Received  their  clay  within  its  voiceless  halls. 
The  heavens  that  bend  above  that  land  are  hung 
With  clouds  of  various  hues  :  some  dark  and  chill, 
Surcharged  with  sorrow,  cast  their  sombre  shade 
Upon  the  sunny,  joyous  land  below  ; 
Others  are  floating  through  the  dreamy  air  ; 
White  as  the  falling  snow,  their  margins  tinged 
With  gold  and  crimson  hues  ;  their  shadows  fall 
Upon  the  flowery  meads  and  sunny  slopes, 
Soft  as  the  shadows  of  an  angel's  wing. 
When  the  rough  battle  of  the  day  is  done, 
And  evening's  peace  falls  gently  on  the  heart, 
I  bound  away  across  the  noisy  years, 
Unto  the  utmost  verge  of  Memory's  land, 
Where  earth  and  sky  in  dreamy  distance  meet, 
And  Memory  dim  with  dark  oblivion  joins  ; 
When  woke  the  first-remembered  sounds  that  fell 
Upon  the  ear  in  childhood's  early  morn  ; 
And  wandering  thence  along  the  rolling  years, 
I  see  the  shadow  of  my  former  self 
Gliding  from  childhood  up  to  man's  estate. 
The  path  of  youth  winds  down  through  many  a  vale, 
And  on  the  brink  of  many  a  dread  abyss, 
From  out  whose  darkness  comes  no  ray  of  light, 


THE  QUARTERLY.  IO/ 

Save  that  a  phantom  dances  o'er  the  gulf, 
And  beckons  toward  the  verge.     Again  the  path 
Leads  o'er  a  summit  where  the  sunbeams  fall  ; 
And  thus  in  light  and  shade,  sunshine  and  gloom, 
Sorrow  and  joy,  this  life-path  leads  along. 

y.  A.  Garfield. 

A  SOPHIST. 

WHAT  are  you  doing,  Joe  ? "  said  I. 
"  Oh  !  nothing,  sir,"  was  Joe's  reply. 
"  And  you,  there,  Tom,  pray  let  me  know  " — 
"  I  'm  busy,  sir  ;  I  'm  helping  Joe." 
"  Is  nothing,  then,  so  hard  to  do, 
That  thus  it  takes  the  time  of  two  ?  " 
"  No,"  says  the  other,  with  a  smile, 
And  grins  and  chuckles  all  the  while  ; 
"  But  we  're  such  clever  chaps,  d  'ye  see, 
Nothing  's  too  hard  for  Joe  and  me." 

THE  BROOK. 

'HROUGH  the  meadow,  slowly  winding 
With  a  rippling  murmur,  finding 
Way  to  run  with  tripping  feet, 
See  the  rounded  pebble  bounding, 
Always  singing,  sighing,  sounding, 
Runs  the  brook  with  music  sweet. 


108  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

O'er  its  surface,  sunbeams,  dancing, 
Sport  and  play  with  wavelets,  glancing 

Back  in  trembling  sprays  of  light, 
Which  forever  quake  and  shiver 
As  the  wavelets  quiver,  quiver, 

Through  the  sunshine,  warm  and  bright. 

Now  it  runs  on  sand  and  shingle, 
And  its  waters  seem  to  jingle, 

As  they  swiftly  hurry  on. 
Now  amid  the  rocks  't  is  falling  ; 
And  the  echoes,  sweetly  calling, 

Send  us  back  its  merry  song. 

Now  it  with  the  lilies  dallies  ; 
Then  its  little  might  it  rallies, 

And  onward  darts,  with  start  and  hiss, 
Speeding  on  with  haste  and  hurry, 
Tumbling  on,  with  whirl  and  flurry, 

O'er  each  tiny  precipice. 

Now  its  little  song  't  is  singing 

To  mossy  banks,  where  violets  springing 

Spread  their  perfume  on  the  air. 
And  each  pretty  floweret,  bending 
O'er  the  water  bright,  is  lending 

Beauty  to  the  Summer  fair. 

Now  the  brook  with  beauty  's  teeming ! 
And  how  bright  its  water  's  gleaming 


THE   QUARTERLY.  109 

As  it  glides  past  rock  and  tree  ! 
How  it  turns  and  twists  and  doubles, 
How  it  bubbles,  bubbles,  bubbles, 

On  the  journey  to  the  sea. 

Through  the  meadows  gently  winding, 
With  a  rippling  murmur,  finding 

Way  to  run  with  tripping  feet, 
O'er  the  rounded  pebbles  bounding, 

Glides  the  brook  with  music  sweet. 

G.  P.  Noble. 

APOSTROPHE. 

(  To  the  Bronze  Statue  on  the  Soldiers'  Monument  at 
Williams  College.) 

I. 

IS  with  a  reverence  that  I  seldom  pay 

Mere  brass  or  marble,  that  I  look  on  thee, 
Thou  eloquent  memorial  of  a  day 
Whose  like,  Heaven  grant,  we  never  more  may 

.     see  ! 

When  arms  unto  the  toga  gave  command, 
And  Mars,  not  Pallas,  ranged  the  student  band. 

ii. 
When  e'en  this  cradle  in  the  mountains  roared 

With  distant  tones  of  internecine  war ; 
And  the  stern  call  to  buckle  on  the  sword 

Swelled  from  the  nation's  capital  afar  ; 


110  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

While  the  sweet  cadence  of  the  chapel  bell 
Like  notes  of  bivouac-rousing  bugle  fell. 

in. 

When,  armed  to  save  the  perilled  nation's  life, 
Each  hamlet  sent  its  youthful  warriors  forth, 

And  Freedom's  legions,  marshalled  for  the  strife, 
Poured  like  a  deluge  from  the  loyal  North, 

To  far-off  battles,  following  the  drum, 

Whence,  ah,  how  many  nevermore  should  come ! 

IV. 

Methinks,  O  image  !  on  thy  brow  I  see 
The  spirit  of  that  unforgotten  time — 

The  student-soldier  tempered  lovingly 

With    sadness,    chastening    all    their    youthful 
prime — 

The  patriot,  musing  o'er  Antietam's  plain, 

Or  Gettysburg  piled  with  its  ghastly  slain. 

v. 

Forever  on  thy  lofty  pedestal 

Stand  thou  !  a  teacher  of  the  days  to  come. 
Speak  to  old  Williams'  sons  of  those  who  fell 

For  God,  for  Country,  and  for  Freedom's  home  ! 
And  with  these  everlasting  hills  proclaim 
The  martyr  patriot's  undying  fame  ! 

£.  W.  J5.  Canning. 


Selections  from  Gbe 


MY  LADIE'S  FAN. 

I  Y  ladie's  fan  is  softe  with  down, 

And  riche  with  mingled  gold  and  brown, 
Inwrought  with  servyle  patience,  leste 

Som  minor  touch  might  fail  of  beste, 

And  forfeit  faire  perfection's  crowne. 

Her  glove,  her  shoo — which  clame  renown 
In  tuneful  verse — and  eke  her  gown, 
With  all  their  charms,  doe  but  suggest 
My  ladie's  fan. 

Its  flutt'ring  breth  has  power  to  drown 
The  carkeing  gossip  of  the  town  ; 
But  when  it  swetely  lies  at  rest 
Upon  my  gentle  ladie's  breast 
I  'd  love  to  bee  (oh,  spare  the  frowne  ! ) 
My  ladie's  fan. 

JR.  L.  Hartt. 
in 


112  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

THE  FOOL'S  LOGIC. 

s^UOTH  the  much-witted  fool  to  his  master,  the 

king  : 
"  Clutch  tightly  your  crown,  for  it 's  logic  I 

bring. 

By  logic  the  world  makes  its  regular  rounds, 
And  the  prince  will  be  king,  sir,  on  logical  grounds. 
Of  the  princes,"  quoth  he,  "  one  reads  day  and  night. 
A  '  book-worm/  you  call  him,  O  king  !  am  I  right  ? 
You  grant  it.     The  other  his  learning  confines 
To  the  study  of  angles,  the  cosines  and  sines  ; 
The  former  's  a  book-worm,  the  latter  you  'd  call  ? 
Why,  bless  me  !  an — angle-worm.     Logic — that 's 
all." 

7.  S.  UnderhilL 


THE  QUEST  OF  SPRING. 


H 


OW  Nature  takes  her  shield  anew, 
That  rusted  all  the  Winter  thro', 
To  garnish  it  for  Spring. 


She  scours  her  fields  of  vert  and  green, 
And  brightens  all  the  silver  sheen  ; 
For  Spring  has  won  his  spurs. 

This  rare  emblazonry  will  be 
Studded  with  gules  of  bush  and  tree, 
In  wonderful  device. 


THE  WEEKLY.  113 

Then  errant  over  hill  and  dale, 
A  quest  for  Nature's  Holy  Grail  ! 
He  '11  find  it  sure  in  June. 

E.  R.   White. 


LOVE'S  ATTIC. 

'HE  attic  of  young  Cupid's  house 

I  visited  one  day  ; 
To  see  the  tattered  bits  of  love, 
That  there  were  stored  away. 

For  cast-off  odds-and-ends  of  hearts, 

About  the  place  were  strewn, 
Like  baubles  of  some  other  days, 

That  long  ago  had  flown. 

But  yet,  the  withered  roses  there 

— Frail  wreaths  from  Love's  own  tomb, — 
Upon  the  dusty  mellow  air, 

Still  shed  a  faint  perfume. 

JS.R.  White. 

A  SUMMER'S  LOVE. 

LILY  was  enamoured  of  a  rose, 

And  tried  each  livelong  day,  in  vain,  to  tell 
His  tender  love,  and  gentle  throbbing  throes  ; 

The  rose  blushed  on  unknowing  at  the  well. 


114  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

The  lily's  waxen  face  was  turning  pale, 
When,  tossing  up  and  down,  he  saw  above 

A  vagrant  bee,  to  whom  he  told  his  tale, 
And  gave  to  him  the  mission  of  his  love. 

The  bee  buzzed  to  the  rose  and  whispered  low. 

His  embassy  I  'm  sure  was  not  in  vain, 
For  one  can  see  them  now  when  breezes  blow 

A  nodding  each  to  each  across  the  lane. 

E.R.  White. 

RONDEAU. 

N  artless  song  of  other  days 
Divides  the  retrospective  haze, 

That  fills  the  Vale  of  Life,  between 
The  now  and  then.     Quite  unforeseen, 
The  old  dead  memories  upraise. 

That  there  's  a  wound  that  ever  stays, 
My  sudden  tremor  well  betrays, 

And  what  has  caused  this  heartache  keen  ? 
An  artless  song. 

Yes  !  When  my  vagrant  fancy  strays 
In  those  but  half-remembered  ways, 
I  see  a  shrined  but  unthroned  queen  ; 
A  dreamy  form  with  wistful  mien 
Comes  back  to  me  as  some  one  plays 
An  artless  song. 

E.  £.  White. 


THE  WEEKLY.  115 

TIT  FOR  TAT. 

E  timidly  climbed  up  the  brown-stone  steps, 

He  timidly  rang  the  bell, 
He  felt  that  this  visit  might  be  his  last, 

But  why  so  he  could  not  tell. 


As  he  stood  by  the  door  the  winter  wind 

Whirled  in  the  streets  about, 
But  above  its  roaring  he  heard  her  say: 

"  John,  tell  him  that  I  am  out." 

As  the  door  was  opened  with  stately  mien, 

He  said  to  the  butler  tall, 
"  Pray,  go  to  Miss  Jones  with  my  compliments 

And  tell  her  I  did  not  call." 

McGregor  Jenkins. 


THE  RIME  OF   THE  COOKING-SCHOOL 
GIRL. 

PART  I. 

I.  II. 

Pretty  maiden  Sleeves  rolled  up  and 

With  a  book,  Snowy  arms, 

She  is  learning  Rosy  cheeks  and 

How  to  cook.  Other  charms 


Il6  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

III.  IV. 

Help  the  maid  to  Youth  comes  in  and 

Make  a  mash  Begs  to  eat 

As  she  tries  to  Something  made  by 

Make  the  hash.  Maiden  sweet. 


PART  II. 

I.  n. 

He  has  left  us  Where  the  gentle 

Ever-more,  Breezes  blow, 

Left  us  for  Where  sweet-scented 

Another  shore,  Flowers  grow. 

in.  iv. 

They  have  laid  him  Sweetest  maiden 

'Neath  the  sod,  Ever  seen 

'Neath  the  fern  and  Always  keeps  his 

Golden-rod.  Grave  quite  green. 

y.  T.  Newcomb. 


UPON  THE  STAGE. 

I  P  on  the  stage  one  summer  day, 

The  while  it  rumbled  on  its  way 
So  slowly  through  the  busy  street, 
Beside  me  sat  a  maiden  sweet, 
A-going  to  the  matine'e. 


THE   WEEKLY.  1 1/ 

Just  how  it  chanced  I  cannot  say  ; 
She  stole  my  very  heart  away, 
She  seemed  so  lovely,  so  petite, 
Up  on  the  stage. 

Thought  I  :  "  This  girl  will  go  astray  ; 
A  ballet  holds  the  boards  to-day." 
So  thither  then  I  turned  my  feet 
And  from  the  very  foremost  seat 
I  saw  her  dancing  in  the  play 
Upon  the  stage. 

A.  K.  Willyoung. 


THE  SAILOR. 

SAILOR  bold  am  I, 

For  the  dashing  surf  I  sigh, 

I  long  to  be 
Away  on  the  sea, 
On  the  billows  rolling  high. 

From  port  to  port  I  sail, 

All  over  the  world  I  roam, 

The  briny  wave 

I  fearless  brave, 

O  the  sea  it  is  my  home  ! 


Il8  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

I  've  been  from  east  to  west, 

I  Ve  coursed  from  shore  to  shore  ; 

I  'm  gay  and  free  ; 

It 's  not  for  me 

To  care  or  wish  for  more. 

I  love  my  saucy  craft  ; 

I  love  to  see  her  skim 

O'er  waters  blue, 

With  helm  so  true 

And  sails  and  yards  so  trim. 

A  sailor's  life — heigho  ! 

A  sailor's  life  for  me  ; 

Come  what  may, 

I  'm  bound  to  stay 

On  the  dark  and  rolling  sea. 

P.  S.  Wild. 


THE  FIRST  QUARREL. 

TEXT  :  Smoking. 

'HE  habit  of  smoking  is  vulgar,  you  know, 
Only  fit  for  those  people  whose  instincts 

are  low," 

Insisted  his  wife  as  she  sat  by  his  side, 
To  which  opposition  he  calmly  replied  : 
"You  'd  surely  call  Milton  a  high-minded  man, 
Not  so,  my  dear  wife  ?     His  life  did  n't  pan 


THE   WEEKLY.  1 19 

Out  a  failure,  you  know  ;  well  now  I  insist 
If  all  smokers  are  low  he  's  down  on  your  list. 

"  Carlyle,  you  '11  admit,  was  a  genius,  nicht  wahr  ? 
(Excuse  me  a  jiff  while  I  light  my  cigar.) 
He  smoked  like  a  chimney,  Clarissa,  my  dear, 
While   Lamb   smoked   each   month    more  than  I 

smoked  last  year. 
Old  Newton  at  church  with  his  conscience  quite 

clear 
Fumed  with  tobacco  the  pews  in  the  rear. 

"Your    Dickens    smoked    too,  while  Thackeray's 

clothes 

Were  soaked  with  tobacco  fume  thro'  to  his  hose. 
In  short,  dear  Clarissa,  my  list  would  contain 
The  name  of  each  genius  from  Raleigh  to  Twain." 
Then  smiling  she  answered,  with  logic  elate  : 
"  You  promise  to  swear  off  until  you  are  great  ? " 

/.  5.   Underhill. 


ON  THE  BALCONY. 

WAS  just  after  twilight,  and  standing 

Alone  on  the  balcony,  I 
Was  watching  the  gathering  darkness 
And  the  stars  coming  out  in  the  sky. 


I2O  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

And  she  came  to  me  there  in  th£  dimness, 
Her  little  hand  slipped  into  mine, 

And  we  silently  stood  there  together — 
With  feelings — ah  !  who  can  define  ? 

Then  I  bent  down  and  lovingly  kissed  her 
As  she  stood  there  so  close  by  my  side, 

And  she  took  it  all  strangely  demurely 
And  smiled,  never  thinking  to  chide. 

From  above,  a  small  star,  looking,  saw  me, 
And  tipped  me  a  kind  of  a  wink, 

As  if  it  would  say,  not  unkindly, 

You  're  spooning,  young  fellow,  I  think. 

But  I  was  n't.     Most  every  one  kissed  her. 

My  right  was  undoubted  and  clear, 
For  you  see  't  was  my  small  baby  sister  ; 

After  all,  it  was  n't  so  queer. 

y.  T.  Ntwcomb. 


SONG. 

'HE  winter  sun  is  shining  high 

Across  the  snow, 
And  looks  with  brave  and  cheery  eye 

On  men  below. 
But  some  see  naught  but  clouds  and  rain, 


THE    WEEKLY.  121 

Some  but  the  hope  of  sordid  gain, 

And  some,  weighed  down  by  sin  and  pain, 

In  darkness  go, 
Though  still  the  sun  is  bright  on  high 

Across  the  snow. 

T.  M.  Banks. 


H 


HARD-HEARTED. 

ER  wavy  hair  was  black  as  coal ; 

Her  laughing  eyes  were  jet  ; 
Her  ev'ry  smile  showed  teeth  of  pearl 

Among  red  rubies  set. 


And  so  it  was  not  strange  that  when 

I  sought  her  for  my  own, 
I  found  —  alas  !  my  blasted  hope  !  — 

I  found  her  heart  was  stone. 

A.  K.  Willy  oung. 


xf 

y 


A  TRAGEDIE. 
N  Mohawk  vallie, 


Ten  pritie  maids 
And  youths  —  a  score, 
Went  out  upon 
A  sleighing  partie. 


122  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

In  Mohawk  vallie 

(1804) 

A  band  of  Indians 
Spilt  ye  gore 

Of  pritie  maids  and  youths  (a  score) 
— A  slaying  partie. 

H.  W.  Edson. 

AT  THE  GERMAN. 

OOFT  music  filled  the  dancing-hall ; 
@)     With  measures  sweet  and  low, 
*  Over  the  polished  floor  we  tripped 
The  light  fantastic  toe. 

And  as  we  swiftly  whirled  about, 

Her  lips  she  gently  stirred, 
And  quickly  forward  then  I  leaned, 
To  catch  the  whispered  word. 

I  hoped  to  hear  some  word  of  love, 

Thus  spoken  as  we  danced, 
She  slowly  raised  her  eyes  to  mine, 

And  then  away  she  glanced. 

How  cruelly  my  hopes  she  dashed, — 

In  accents  short  and  terse, 
She  softly  said,  beneath  her  breath, 

"  I  wish  you  would  reverse." 

McGregor  Jenkins. 


THE  WEEKLY.  123 

ALUMNUS'  REPLY  TO  INVITATION. 

WOULD  I  had  a  bag  of  pelf 

Big  as  the  pack  of  Bunyan's  sinner 
I  'd  send  it  down  in  lieu  of  self 
To  fill  a  chair  at  Williams'  dinner. 

Would  I  had  Midas'  chance  of  old, 
I  'd  starve  a  week  and  well  afford  it ; 

I  'd  turn  all  Boston  bay  to  gold, 

And  bid  old  Williams  come  and  hoard  it. 

Her  pressing  wants  supplying  thus, 
I  'd  fix  the  future  to  succeed  it ; 

I  'd  Hoosac  make  a  Pactolus, 
To  tap  whenever  she  might  need  it. 

E'en  as  it  is,  my  hope  is  strong 

That  the  old  dame  may  be  a  winner  ; 
For  I  have  known  the  proverb  long — 
"  Ask  men  for  favors  AFTER  DINNER." 

E.  W.  B.  Canning. 

ALUMNI  SONG. 

|  S  travellers, — who  on  a  foreign  strand 

Have  tarried  many  a  year, — 
The  language  of  their  native  land, 

Rejoicing,  pause  to  hear  ; 
So  let  us  summon  back  again 
The  words  of  bygone  days, 


124  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

And  raise  the  old,  familiar  strain 
To  Alma  Mater's  praise. 

Her  counsels  were  our  youthful  guide  ; 

Their  memory  lingers  yet, 
Though  feet  that  once  walked  side  by  side 

In  devious  paths  are  set. 
But  wheresoe'er  those  feet  may  stray, 

We  firmly  hold  the  clew 
By  which  our  thoughts  retrace  the  way 

To  Alma  Mater  true. 

With  her  our  hearts  responsive  beat 

In  warm  affections  glow, 
While  Greylock  stands,  and  at  his  feet 

The  Hoosac's  waters  flow. 
Our  youth  was  hers,  and,  manhood  past, 

E'en  Death  shall  powerless  be 
To  break  the  ties  that  hold  us  fast, 

0  Mother  dear,  to  thee. 

T.  W.  Davis. 

A  WINTER  LANDSCAPE. 

YON  slopes  of  frosted  silver  stand 
Full  clear  and  bright  against  a  sky 
Intensely  blue. 

On  either  hand 

Great,  silent  mountains  nearer  lie 
In  darker  shade,  and  pencilled  thick 


THE  WEEKLY.  12$ 

With  countless  trunks  of  forests  old, 
All  naked  to  the  stinging  cold. 
The  distant  heights  seem  near, 
And  listen  !  for  I  hear 
The  sighing  of  the  leafless  trees 
A-swaying  in  the  biting  breeze. 

T.  M.  Banks. 


RONDEAU. 

*HE  name  of  Bess  recalls  from  yore, 

From  quaint  old  England's  foreign  store, 
The  days  when  gallant  sworded  blades 

Accompanied  Falstaff  on  his  raids 

And  listened  to  the  oaths  he  swore. 

At  some  old  Inn's  vine-trellised  door, 
The  landlord's  sack  they  can't  ignore  ; 
And  pledge,  forgetting  other  maids, 
The  name  of  Bess. 

But  not  the  thought  of  past's  quaint  store, 
Shall  make  me  this  sweet  name  adore, 
But  sunny  strolls  in  glassy  glades. 
These  memories  my  heart  persuades, 
I  '11  ever  love  the  girl  that  bore, 
The  name  of  Bess. 

E.  j£.  White. 


126  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

SPECULATION  VS.  EMPIRICISM. 

he,  "Your  lips  look  just  delicious," 
And  she,  in  sweet,  blushing  confusion, 
Made  answer  both  wise  and  capricious, 
"  Pray  draw  no  such  hasty  conclusion." 

R.  L.  Hartt. 


DIFFERENT  STANDPOINTS. 

(LTHOUGH  it  shows  a  want  of  sense,  they 

say, 

To  quibble  over  straws  and  small  affairs  ; 
Yet  in  Biology  the  other  day 

The  wise  Professor  set  us  "  splitting  hares." 

F.  T.  Harward. 


A  BANKRUPT  VOICE. 

0LTHOUGH  he  is  a  monied  man, 
It  's  strange  a  hundred  throats 
Should  raise,  each  time  he  tries  to  sing, 
A  protest  'gainst  his  notes  ! 

E.  R.  White. 


THE  WEEKLY.  127 

JINGLES  OF  ODD  KEYS, 
i. 

DO  not  wish  to  study  hard 

And  swing  a  golden  key  ; 
My  watch  a  fine  stem-winder  is, — 
What  good  would  it  do  me  ? 

ii. 
I  touched  the  slender  hand  with  mine, 

And  gazed  on  the  pale  cold  face  ; 
It  did  not  quail,  the  voice  was  mute  ; 

A  change  must  have  taken  place. 
I  tried  to  think  what  I  had  done —  . 

Indifference,  thoughtless  slight, 
Unmeant  neglect — there  was  the  key, 

The  clock  must  be  wound  to-night. 

N.  H.  Dutcher. 

MAY  AND  DECEMBER. 

s^VER  the  hills  the  May  winds  blow, 

Sweet  laden  with  scent  and  song, 
And  the  budding  branches  whisper  low 
As  the  gentle  breezes  come  and  go, 

And  the  vales  with  wild  flowers  throng. 
But  what  care  I  for  the  merry  lay 

That  the  Spring-tuned  songsters  trill, 
When  you,  my  love,  are  far  away 
Over  the  hill. 


128  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Over  the  hills  December's  blast 

Blows  full  loud  and  keen, 
And  the  trees,  gaunt-armed,  as  it  rushes  past 
Wave  branches  bare  and  over-glassed 

With  Winter's  white  frost  sheen. 
But  what  care  I  though  they  toss  amain, 

And  the  winds  blow  fierce  and  shrill, 
Since  you,  my  love,  are  back  again 

From  over  the  hill. 

y.  T.  Newcomb. 

QUATRAIN. 

WE  paddled  on  the  river  ; 
What  pleasure  such  as  this  ! 
Although  we  were  not  married, 
It  was  canoe-bial  bliss. 

E.  R.  White. 

MY  FIRST   LOVE. 

VISION  steals  upon  my  thoughts, 
— A  lithe  little  form  in  white  ; 
The  fragrant  haze  floats  back  again  ; 
I  dream  of  that  moonlit  night, 
And  sigh  in  vain  for  that  sweet  hour 
When,  charmed  by  the  fair  coquette, 
I  '11  find  relief  from  reckless  vows 
Inhaling  that  cigarette  ! 

N.  H.  Dutcher. 


THE  WEEKLY.  129 

MULTUM  IN  PARVO. 

'HE  paper  filled  a  column 
With  a  story,  long  and  solemn, 
Of  a  righteous  man's  deplored  de- 
cline and  fall  : 

How  they  dragged  him  to  the  station 
In  complete  intoxication 
After  Mrs.  So-and-So's  delightful  ball. 

This  modest  little  mention 
Won  such  general  attention 

That  in  one  short  week  the  good  man's  grave  was 
dug. 

Give  the  editor  the  glory, 
For  he  might  have  told  the  story 
In  three  such  little  words  as 

Jig, 
Jag, 

Jug. 
R.  L.  Hartt. 


A  RETORT  COURTEOUS. 

LOVED  her  and  tried  to  speak, 
But  words  I  could  not  find. 
I  said,  "  You  sure  would  listen  if 
I  could  express  my  mind  !  " 


130  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

"  Express  companies  will  not  take, 
A  thing  that 's  quite  so  frail, 

So  wrap  it  up,"  she  laughing  said, 
"  And  send  it  off  by  mail  !  " 

E.  £.  White. 


DUPLICITY. 

'LL  find  a  fence  on  which  to  sit," 

She  whispered  tenderly, 
"And  there  beneath  the  watching  stars, 
You  may  tell  your  love  for  me." 

My  heart  with  joy  was  overweighed, 

But  pleasure  changed  to  ire, 
For  when  I  found  the  trysting-place, 

The  fence  was  barbed  wire  ! 

E.  R.  White. 

AFTER  THE   SEASON. 

HIS  face  is  bruised  and  battered  and  his  ribs 
are  mostly  shattered, 

And  his  beauty  is  a  long-forgotten  dream, 
But  he  's  wined  and  dined  and  feted,  and  with  glory 

he  is  sated, 

For  he  's  half-back  on  the  college  football  team. 

T.  H.  Simmons. 


\\ 


THE  WEEKLY.  131 

CECILIA  PLAYING. 

ER  execution  wins  unbounded  praise, 

But  now  that  I  have  heard  her 
I  must  discard  the  euphemistic  phrase, 
And  call  it  simply  murder. 

R.  Z.  Hartt. 

A  MAIDEN'S  WAYS. 

MAIDEN'S  ways  are  sadly  strange  ; 

They  are,  beyond  a  doubt  ; 
But  no  young  man  believes  the  fact 
Until  he  's  found  her  out. 


A  maiden's  ways  are  sadly  strange  ; 

— A  fact  I  used  to  doubt, — 
Until  a  girl  asked  me  to  call, 

And  then — I  found  her  out  ! 

A.  K.  Willy  oung. 

COUNTER-EVIDENCE. 

ALWAYS  shall  remember 

How  her  dainty  little  hand, 
Pressed  my  own  with  gentler  feeling 
Than  I  dared  to  understand  ; 
How  that  gracious,  tender  pressure 

Sent  a  thrill  through  all  my  frame, 
Till  I  found  myself  submitting 
To  a  power  I  could  not  name. 


132  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

But  think  her  not  coquettish, 

Or  bold  in  making  love  ; 
For  she  stood  behind  the  counter, 

And  was  fitting  on  a  glove. 

R.  L.  Hartt. 


fcx 


TEMPORA  MUTANTUR. 

ONG  years  ago  in  Moses'  time, 

When  people  were  troubled  with  woes, 
They  tore  their  hair  and  in  their  grief 
They  savagely  rent  their  clothes. 


And  so  it  is  in  college  now 

When  students  are  troubled  with  woes, 
They  tear  no  hair,  but  in  their  grief 

They  savagely  rent  their  clothes. 

A.  K.  Willyoung. 

THE  TWO  MAIDS. 

*WO  maids  as  fair  as  maids  can  be  ; 

Fair  twins,  both  blond  are  they 
But  both  coquettes  and  shallow-souled, 
Dressed  up  in  style  to-day. 

They  paint  sometimes  when  color  fails  ; 

Delight  in  laces  fine  : 
Two  maids,  two  ready-mades  are  they, 

These  russet  shoes  of  mine. 

F.  P.  Kimball. 


THE  WEEKLY.  133 

THE  MODERN  WAY. 

'RADE  has  usurped  the  Muses'  realm, 

And  Pan  has  fled  the  hills, 
And  woodland  scenes  are  always  marred, 
By  sundry  "  ads  "  of  pills. 

The  nymphs  and  dryads  all  are  dead, 

Mythology  must  go, 
These  modern  days  would  show  a  pan 

Scoured  by  Sapolio  ! 

E.  R.  White. 

A  SPRING-TIME  IDYL. 

\  CROSS  the  road,  a  figure  trim 

Whose  glancing  eyes,  beneath  the  brim 
Of  her  new  Easter  hat,  invite, — 
Or  seem  to,  with  their  roguish  light, — 
To  join  her  in  the  twilight  dim. 

His  heart  beats  with  a  sudden  vim 
As  she  throws  back  a  glance  at  him  ; 
Her  eyes  exert  a  subtle  might 
Across  the  road. 

O  mocking  fates  !     For  fortune  grim 
Denies  this  joy  with  cruel  whim. 
His  face  grows  paler  at  the  sight, 
He  's  somewhat  in  Leander's  plight  ; 
To  talk  with  her  he  '11  have  to  swim 
Across  the  road.  E.  R.  White. 


Songs. 


THE  MOUNTAINS. 

I,  proudly  rise  the  monarchs  of  our  mountain 

land, 

With  their  kingly  forest  robes  to  the  sky, 
Where  Alma  Mater  dwelleth  with  her  chosen  band, 
And  the  peaceful  river  floweth  gently  by. 

The  snows  of  winter  crown  them  with  a  crystal 

crown, 
And  the  fleecy  clouds  of  summer  round  them 

cling  ; 
The   autumn's   scarlet    mantle    falls    in    richness 

down, 
And  they  revel  in  the  garniture  of  spring. 

Oh,  mightily  they    battle   with    the    storm-king's 
pow'r  ; 

And  conquerors,  shall  triumph  here  for  aye  : 
Yet  quietly  their  shadows  fall  at  evening  hour, 

While  the  gentle  breezes  round  them  softly  play. 


136  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

Beneath  their  peaceful  shadows  may  old  Williams 
stand, 

Till  suns  and  mountains  nevermore  shall  be, 
The  glory  and  the  honor  of  our  mountain  land, 

And  the  dwelling  of  the  gallant  and  the  free. 

CHORUS : 
The  mountains  !    the  mountains  !    we   greet   you 

with  a  song 
Whose  echoes,  rebounding  your  woodland  heights 

along, 
Shall  mingle  with  anthems  that  winds  and  fountains 

sing, 
Till  hill  and  valley  gaily,  gaily  ring. 

Washington  Gladden. 


TO  THEE,  O  WILLIAMS.1 

*O  thee,  O  Williams,  true  and  tried, 

Our  hymns  of  love  we  raise  ; 
Each  heart  beats  fast  with  throbbing  zeal 

To  sing  thy  fame  in  praise. 
For  thee  the  mountains  give  their  voice 

That  thunders  through  the  vale, 
Thy  strength  can  breast  the  angry  flood 
And  winter  every  gale. 

1  Sung  by   the   Williams   Glee   Club  to   air  of  Eichberg's 
National  Hymn. 


SONGS.  137 

Oh,  bind  us  to  thee  sure  and  fast, 

With  chains  of  lasting  steel, 
Each  link  a  memory,  pure  and  sweet, 

That  doth  a  love  reveal. 
O  Brothers,  stand  we  firm  and  strong 

For  her  whose  name  we  bear  ; 
And  where  our  footsteps  find  a  home 

We  '11  plant  her  banner  there. 

Samuel  Abbott. 


PARIS'  SONG. 

N  all  Verona's  wide  domain, 

There  's  none  so  fair  and  sweet, 
As  she  who  in  my  bosom  reigns, 
And  conquest  makes  complete. 


Fair  Juliet's  eyes  are  diamonds  bright, 

Like  waters  deep  and  clear, 
And  at  their  bid  in  hapless  plight, 

Fond  Cupid  doth  appear. 

She  walks  erect  with  queenly  mien, 

Like  men  she  doth  disdain,  . 
While  I  whose  love  is  all  unseen, 

Alas,  I  love  in  vain  ! 

W.  H.  Edwards. 


138  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

FRIAR'S    SONG. 

OOLEMN  and  dignified 
@^         I  make  my  stately  way, 
^-        Praying  and  chanting 
From  dawn  till  the  close  of  day. 

O  Judicare,  Judicare  Domine, 

Praying  and  chanting 
From  dawn  till  the  close  of  day. 

Hist  !  do  a  step  I  hear  ? 

Some  one  comes  this  way  ! 
Hist  !  not  a  step  I  hear  ! 

No  one  comes  this  way  ! 

Now  for  a  little  glee 

Just  for  you  and  me, 
To  keep  a  sad  heart  from  repining. 

Too  sad  by  half, 
Let  's  have  a  laugh. 

Now  a  happy  past 

Rises  to  me, 
Love  was  in  a  heart 

Happy  and  free. 
Now  those  days  are  dead  ; 

Gone  from  me, 
For  a  grave  lies 

O'er  the  sea. 


SONGS.  139 

Now  I  see  her  there 

Watching  for  me  ; 
Bright  eyes,  true  eyes, 

I  loved  thee. 
Now  tears  in  my  eyes 

Ever  must  be, 
For  a  grave  lies 

O'er  the  sea. 

W.  H.  Edwards. 

BELINDA  CLARISSA. 

i. 

by  the  river  there  dwells  a  little  maiden 
fair, 
She  is  so  pretty  with  big  blue  eyes  and  golden 

hair, 

And  if  you  ask  me,  why  I  'm  always  going  there, 
Don't  you  know  ?     Speak  it  low,  she  loves  me  ! 

CHORUS : 
Heigh-ho  !     Heigh-ho  !     Then  she  's  the  girl  for 

me, 

Were  she  a  perfect  virago, 
I  'd  still  be  true,  I  love  her  so. 
Heigh-ho  !      Heigh-ho  !      My  heart  's  no  longer 

free, 

And  the  reason  is, — why,  don't  you  know  ?     She 
loves  me  ! 


140  WILLIAMS  VERSE. 

II. 

What  do  we  call  her?      Well,  her  first  name  is 

Belinda, 

Then  she  's  another,  her  second  name  is  Clarissa, 
Jones  is  her  last  name,  but  she  '11  change  it  soon 

for,  ah  ! 

Belinda,  Clarissa,  she  loves  me  ! 
CHORUS : 


in. 

She  has  a  mamma  who  loves  me  not,  I  'm  sorry  to 

say, 
She  has  a  papa  who   hates  me  worse  from  day  to 

day, 

They  set  the  bull-dog  on  me  when  I  go  that  way, 
Bow,  wow,  wow  !  there  's  a  row — she  loves  me  ! 
CHORUS : 

IV. 

Soon  down  the  river  our  old  barn-door  will  float 

along, 
Down   from   her   window  there  will  be  thrown  a 

clothes-line  strong, 

Now  for  the  parson,  we  will  each  to  each  belong, 
Belinda,  Clarissa,  she  loves  me  ! 
CHORUS : 

W.  H.  Edwards. 


SONGS.  141 

EPH.  WILLIAMS, 
i. 

here  's  to  the  health  of  Eph.  Williams, 
Who  founded  a  school  in  Billville, 
And  when  he  was  scalped  by  the  Indians 
He  left  us  his  "  bood  "  in  his  will. 

ii. 

And  out  of  this  school  grew  a  college, 
Renowned  for  base-ball  and  free-trade, 

And  many  a  statesman  and  scholar 
Old  Ephraim's  boodle  has  made. 

in. 

Oh,  here  's  to  old  Fort  Massachusetts, 
And  here  Js  to  the  old  Mohawk  trail, 

And  here  's  to  historical  Peri 

Who  grinds  out  this  sorrowful  tale. 


YB   I  1 533 


M107481 


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